ROMANCE  AND  ft  HALF 

OF  THE  PURJTW 
COAST 


I   LIBRARY! 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

\       SAN  DIEGO 


ROMANCE  AND  REALITY 

OF  THE  PURITAN 

COAST 


Hester  Prynne  and  Pearl. 


ROMANCE  S^CREALITY 

COAST 


^-  Itfitfimany  fittfejjicturinas  authentic 
orjancifufby    ScfnrundnQarrett 
Pubtjftted  by  JLittfe  Thrown  &C$Jofwrt 


Copyright,  1S97, 
BY   EDMUND    H.  GARRETT. 


5Hnit)frsitg  Stress: 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


PRSHAC& 


A  man  might  as  well  go 
to  court  without  a  cravate 
as  to  write  a  book  without 
a  preface. 

SIR  ROGER  L'ESTRANGE. 

HOUGH  much  has 
been  written  already 
about  the  North 
Shore,  the  coast  of 
the  Puritans,  and  the 
subject  is  perhaps 
as  well  worn  as  the 
road  that  leads  by 
its  sea,  it  may  not 
be  superfluous  to 

survey  the  scene  from  a  fresh  point  of  view, 
the  saddle  of  a  bicycle.  For  Nature  is  found 
along  the  wheel's  track,  as  well  as  on  the 
mountain  path,  by  the  stream,  or  in  the 
woods;  and  the  love  of  Nature  is  our  lasting 


8 


Preface. 


joy.  The  book  is  then  not  so  much  in  praise 
of  riding,  as  of  seeing.  Nor  has  it  only  to  do 
with  Nature,  for  in  it  is  mixed  much  talk  of 
man's  doings  and  makings,  something  too  of 
history  and  romance. 


"  Nnuly-ploughed  fields 


Yet,  after  all,  it  is  really  the  love  of  Nature 
that  rules  and  abides.  How  often,  when  the 
winter  days  lengthen  and  drag,  the  wheelman 
sighs  for  springtime  and  the  road !  I  know 
this  longing,  but  with  me,  it  is  not  wholly 


Preface. 


for  travel's  sake.  The  longing  is  mixed  with 
memories  of  highways  where  the  snow  melts 
early,  where  the  scents  of  springtime  are 
unloosened  and  doubled  in  the 
bland  air ;  perfume  of  red-flowered 
maples,  balsam  from  the  pines,  and 
a  promise  of  fruition  in  the  odor  of 
newly-ploughed  fields ;  memories 
of  the  orchard  turning  all  lichen- 
like  in  color,  from  its  swelling  buds, 
and  of  little  brooks  sparkling  like 
sapphires  and  diamonds  in  the 
green  lowlands. 

Surely,  the  riding  is  only  a  part ! 
—  for  what   of  all   this   does   the 
"  scorcher  "  see,  or  he  of  the  "  cen- 
tury"?    To    him,    too,    comes,  of 
course,   the    breath  of  wood    and 
orchard,  the  fragrance   from    field 
and    garden    (as  the  rain  falls  on 
the  just  and  the  unjust)  ;   but  they  come  too 
quickly,  one  upon  the  other,  for  the  proper 
savoring.     Besides,  his  mind,  too  intent  upon 
the  road,  has  no  time  for  contemplation,  nor 


10 


Preface. 


for  vagabond  wanderings,  no  time  for  sum- 
mer memories  awakened  by  familiar  sounds 
and  odors,  memories  of  the  hot  afternoons  or 
quiet  evenings,  the  drowsy  song  of  locusts, 


"Rest  in  a  shady  grove" 


chirp  of  katydid  or  cricket,  fresh  morning 
rides,  and  rest  in  a  shady  grove,  or  by  the 
cool  sea.  Most  people  ride  too  fast.  The 
art  of  strolling  a-wheel  should  be  cultivated. 
The  best  way  to  do  this  is  to  take  the  mind 


Preface. 


1 1 


off  the  cyclometer  and  the  clock,  and  put  it 
on  the  landscape  and  its  life. 

It  was  in  such  a  spirit  of  idling  and  obser- 
vation that  the  trip  described  in  this  book 
was  made.  The  pictures  are  for  the  most 
part  those  one  may  see  from  the  saddle, 
or  dismount  to  enjoy  at  leisure,  travelling  as 
much  in  a  day  as  is  convenient.  Here  is  no 
desire  to  impose  a  point  of  view  upon  others, 
but  only  to  record  for  them  that  which  most 
impressed  myself,  and  to  give  such  simple 
directions  as  may  help  them  to  find,  on  the 
way,  whatever  herein  may  be  of  interest. 
Indeed,  the  text  has  been  written  around  the 
pictures ;  and  it  is  plain  that,  as  Stevenson 
said  of  Thoreau,  the  writer  has  "  relied 
greatly  on  the  good  will  of  the  reader." 


BY  special  arrangement  with  Messrs.  HOUGHTON, 
MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY,  publishers  of  the  works  of  the 
authors  named,  permission  has  been  generously  accorded 
to  make  extracts  from  the  poems  of  Longfellow,  Whittier, 
and  Lucy  Larcom. 


CONTENTS 


THE  START 19 

THE  SHORE 37 

NAHANT 41 

LYNN  AND  SWAMPSCOTT 58 

MARBLEHEAD 66 

SALEM no 

BEVERLY 133 

MANCHESTER 152 

MAGNOLIA 169 

GLOUCESTER  AND  ROCKPORT 184 

PIGEON  COVE  AND  ANNISQUAM 208 


LIST  op 
DRAWING 


Hester  Prynne  and  Pearl Frontispiece 

Map  of  the  Puritan  Coast Title 

"  Newly  ploughed  fields  " 8 

A  Scorcher 9 

"  Rest  in  a  shady  grove  " 10 

"  Languidly  the  stream  glides  " 20 

Medford  Square 21 

A  Real  Provincial  Grandee 23 

Craddock  House 26 

"  Through  the  shadow  of  a  graceful  leaning  willow  "   .     27 

A  pretty  coast 31 

Howard  House,  Melrose 33 


16  List  of  Drawings. 

"  Between  the  buttonwoods  and  willows  "      .     .     .    .  34 

Boats  on  the  shore,  Lynn  Beach 38 

The  old  rock  temple 42 

Stony  Beach,  Nahant 47 

Pulpit  Rock 51 

Swallow's  Cave 54 

Longfellow  Cottage 55 

Moll  Pitcher 59 

Fisherman's  Beach 61 

Eastern  Yacht  Club 67 

St.  Michael's  , 73 

Lee  Mansion 75 

Front  Street 77 

"  The  backyards  are  as  picturesque  as  the  streets  "    .  79 

Tucker  House 81 

Pirates  in  Marblehead 85 

Floyd  Ireson's  House 89 

Old  Well  of  Fountain  Inn 91 

Old  House  on  the  site  of  the  Fountain  Inn   ....  92 

Sir  Harry  meets  Agnes  Surriage 93 

Lady  Frankland 97 

"  Old  Brig,"  birthplace  of  Moll  Pitcher 99 

General  Glover's  Tomb 101 

Lobsterman's  Hut 103 

Old  Stone  Church 104 

Elbridge  Gerry's  Birthplace 105 

Corner  of  Back  and  Mugford  Streets 107 

Hawthorne's  Birthplace 115 


List  of  Drawings.  17 

The  Manning  Homestead 116 

Where  Hawthorne  was  always  welcome 118 

The  Custom  House,  Salem 119 

Hawthorne  and  the  wraith  of  Collector  Pue  ....  123 

Old  Custom  House  Wharf 125 

House  in  which  "  The  Scarlet  Letter  "  was  written     .  128 

Beverly  Cove 135 

Paul's  Head 138 

Mingo  Beach 143 

Catholic  Church 148 

"  Beverly-by-the-Depot  " 149 

West  Beach 151 

Tuck's  Point 153 

Manchester  Public  Library  and  Church 155 

Manchester  Harbor 156 

Unitarian  Chapel 156 

Lobster  Cove 157 

The  pretty  Episcopal  Church 159 

The  Shady  Lane 161 

Eagle's  Head  from  Singing  Beach 163 

Black  Beach  and  Manchester  Cove 166 

An  Introduction 170 

Beach  at  Magnolia 171 

Under  the  Willows,  Magnolia 173 

Summer  House,  Magnolia 174 

"  And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter  to 

bear  him  company" 177 

Fresh  Water  Cove  Village 180 


i8 


List  of  Drawings. 


Rafe's  Chasm 181 

From  the  wharves,  East  Gloucester 186 

Eastern  Point 188 

The  Harbor  from  East  Gloucester 189 

Ebenezer  Babson 195 

"Old  Meg" 199 

The  Main  Street,  Rockport 202 

Rockport 203 

Folly  Cove 210 

" The  Village  Street ".     .    .     .• '.211 

Annisquam  Church 215 

Head  of  Annisquam  Harbor 218 

Riverdale ....  220 


rm 


"  Then  care  away 

Jfnd  wend  along  ivity  me" 

Coridon's  Song 


I  CROSSED  the  bridge 
over  the  A  b  a  j  o  n  a 
River  at  Mystic,  under 
the  shade  of  the  willows 
overhanging  the  road 
by  the  little  boat-house. 
Though  just  in  the 
saddle,  and  barely 
more  than  half  a  mile 
from  home,  I  dismoun- 
ted to  enjoy  the  beauty 
of  the  familiar  scene. 
Languidly  the  stream 
glides,  brown  in  the 
shadows,  and,  with  its 
lights  sky-tinted,  glides 
out  from  the  heart  of  the  town,  past  the 
dented,  tufted  meadow,  and  under  the  oaks 


20 


The  Puritan  Coast. 


and  maples  where  its  bolder  shore  rises  to 
the  sloping  fields  and  orchards.  A  good 
sketching-ground  :  peaceful,  pastoral,  in  spite 
of  the  railroad  hard  by. 


"  Languidly  the  stream 
glides." 


As  I  went  on,  up  the  hill,  to  Symmes' 
Corner,  the  sun  flashed  a  million  little  span- 
gles on  Mystic  Lake,  and  from  the  farther 
shore  the  hills  rose  in  hazy  distance,  rolling 
toward  Arlington.  It  is  two  and  a  half  miles 


The  Start. 


21 


to  Medford  Square,  over  a  very  indifferent 
road,  and  the  ribbon-like  track  of  the  wheels 


Medford  Square. 


showed  that  long  stretches  of  sidepath  be- 
tween the  few  houses  were  generally  used. 
The  goldenrod  was  on  the  wane,  but  purple, 


22  The  Puritan  Coast. 

white,  and  golden  asters  were  in  their  prime, 
though  in  some  places  dust-laden,  and  all  the 
way  the  chicory  spread  its  cheerful  blue. 
"  Ragged  Dick,"  I  have  heard  this  flower 
called :  a  poor  return  for  the  generosity  with 
which  it  lends  its  beauty  to  vacant  lots,  arid 
freight-yards,  and  factory  wastes.  Now  it 
hung  by  the  dusty  roadside,  and  a  little 
farther  back  I  had  seen  it  springing  from  a 
bed  of  cinders,  and  waving  in  the  wind  and 
smoke  of  a  passing  train. 

Medford  is  a  lovely  old  place ;  it  has  the 
well  kept,  settled  look  of  land  long  occupied. 
Old  houses  under  trees  that  arch  the  street, 
picturesque  churches,  a  fine  mansion  turned 
into  a  public  library, — once  these  are  passed, 
the  street  leads  down  into  Medford  Square, 
where  bygones  mingle  with  to-day. 

On  the  left,  amongst  colonial  homes,  is  the 
old  Seccomb  house,  built  in  imitation  of  the 
Royall  mansion,  and  now  used  for  municipal 
offices.  Down  Main  Street  to  the  right,  only 
a  little  way,  on  the  corner  of  Royall  Street, 


* 


A    Real  Provincial  Grandee. 


The  Start.  25 

is  the  fine  colonial  mansion  itself,  built  by 
Colonel  Isaac  Royall  after  the  model  of  an 
English  gentleman's  house  in  Antigua.  His 
son,  who  seems  to  have  inherited  the  title  of 
colonel  along  with  the  manse,  was  a  distin- 
guished patron  of  Harvard  College,  having 
given  two  thousand  acres  of  land  where- 
with to  found  the  first  professorship  of  law. 
He  is  described  as  kind  and  benevolent,  "  a 
good  master  to  his  slaves."  His  timid- 
ity made  him  a  Tory  and  a  fugitive  during 
the  Revolution,  and  his  estates  were  con- 
fiscated. Great  entertainments  were  given 
here,  for  the  colonel  was  grandly  hospi- 
table, as  became  a  member  of  the  Govern- 
or's Board  of  Council,  and  a  real  provincial 
grandee. 

From  the  square,  down  Riverside  Avenue 
about  a  mile,  is  the  Governor  Craddock  house, 
built  in  1634:  a  strong,  fortified  brick  house 
with  gambrel  roof  and  overhanging  second 
story.  It  is  one  of  the  most  precious  relics 
of  New  England  antiquity,  one  of  our  few  old 
houses  retaining  its  original  form. 


26 


The  Puritan  Coast. 


But   our   trail    lies   to   the    left    from    the 
square,    down    Forest    Street,    a   pleasantly- 


shaded  way  which  soon  enters  the  Middlesex 
Fells.  At  the  corner  of  Elm  Street,  our  road 
to  Melrose,  there  are  a  drinking  fountain  and 


Through  the  shadow  of  a  graceful  feinting  willow.' 


The  Start.  29 

a  pumping  station.  To  the  left  rise  the  Fells, 
at  the  back  of  Winchester.  Around  the 
corner,  an  iron  water-tower  rises,  in  black 
ugliness,  on  a  naked  hill.  Nothing  offers  a 
better  chance  for  architectural  effect,  or  might 
be  made  a  more  pleasing  part  of  the  land- 
scape than  these  water-castles,  yet  almost 
without  exception  they  are  an  offence  to 
good  taste,  and  veritable  eyesores. 

From  the  top  of  the  hill  is  a  pretty  coast 
down  to  the  turn  in  the  road,  and  through 
the  shadow  of  a  graceful  leaning  willow. 
Here  one  turns  to  the  left,  passes  the  Lang- 
wood  Hotel,  overlooking  Spot  Pond,  and 
turns  down  the  Ravine  Road. 

On  the  left  is  the  Virginia  Wood,  given  to 
the  public  in  1892  by  Mrs.  Fanny  Foster 
Tudor ;  its  motto  :  "  All  who  enter  this  Wood 
are  Shareholders  in  its  beauty."  Great  hem- 
locks, oaks,  and  pines  rise  in  its  shadows  from 
their  gnarled  roots  amongst  the  scattered 
rocks  and  covert  of  brake  and  fern. 

From  here  there  is  a  good  coast  to  the 
fork  of  the  road,  where  a  turn  to  the  left 


30  The  Puritan  Coast. 

leads  by  a  shady  avenue  of  bewildering 
autumnal  beauty  into  Wyoming  Avenue,  and 
so  to  Melrose. 

After  crossing  the  Boston  and  Maine  Rail- 
way at  Wyoming  Station,  and  turning  to  the 
left,  the  electric  car-track  points  the  way 
direct  to  where  the  tracks  diverge  to  Stone- 
ham  and  Saugus,  at  Melrose  Highlands. 
Here  there  is  a  little  triangular  oasis  with  a 
fountain  murmuring  under  some  maples,  and 
lacking  only  a  bench  or  two  to  make  it  a 
welcome  resting-place  before  one  proceeds  to 
the  right  down  Howard  Street. 

About  a  mile  down  its  length  is  the  an- 
cient Howard  house,  with  a  jutting  second 
story  built  by  the  Puritan  settler  in  remem- 
brance of  the  old  English  home.  Toward 
the  garden  is  a  long  lean-to,  and  an  aban- 
doned well  with  a  high-reaching  sweep. 

The  car-track  still  points  our  way  through 
Oakland  Vale,  past  infrequent  houses, 
patches  of  flowers,  or  currant  and  goose- 
berry bushes  in  rows  under  drooping  apple- 
boughs. 


\ 


A  pretty  coast. 


The  Start. 


33 


Over  a  wall,  by  the  Newburyport  turn- 
pike, the  smooth  meadow's  green  was  fresh- 
tinted  by  autumn  rains,  and  beyond  it  the 


Howard  House.  Melrose. 


hills  of  Cliftondale  rose  blue  with  the  haze 
of  autumn  and  the  drifting  smoke  of  bon- 
fires. At  the  corner  is  a  large  flat  rock,  and 
there  I  rested,  recalling  another  summer 
3 


34 


The   Puritan  Coast. 


afternoon  when  I  had  sat  there  in  the  shade 
of  green  leaves,  while  the  new  mown  hay  was 
carried  off  between  the  buttonwoods  and  wil- 


;  Bet-ween  the  buttonwoods  and 
•willows." 


lows.  The  cries  of  the  farmers,  the  barking 
of  their  dogs,  and  creak  of  the  laden  wagon 
blended  strangely  with  the  growing  shriek 
of  an  on-coming  electric  car. 


The  Start.  35 

On  the  hill,  after  passing  through  Saugus, 
comes  the  first  whiff  of  sea  air,  as  one  looks 
across  the  marshes  and  the  clayey  brick- 
yards, under  the  smoke  of  their  burning 
kilns,  to  the  blue  windings  of  the  Saugus 
River. 

Downward  to  Boston  Street,  with  glimpses 
of  the  river  sparkling  at  the  foot  of  shady 
lanes  and  under  branching  elms,  one  gets 
the  first  taste  of  the  picturesqueness  of  the 
old  North  Shore  towns.  Hardly  one  of  the 
houses  is  set  squarely  with  the  street;  a 
delightful  individuality  constrains  them.  It 
seemed  to  me  like  a  corner  of  old  Lynn,  as 
I  remember  it  years  ago,  —  the  great  trees, 
the  shade,  the  air  of  thrift  and  neatness,  and, 
above  all,  the  characteristic  orderliness  amid 
the  general  disregard  of  order. 

The  tide  was  inflowing,  with  ample  eddies 
and  a  promise  of  great  fulness.  Below  the 
bridge,  boats  swung  at  their  moorings ;  and 
beyond  harvested  cornfields  and  brown  hay- 
stacks, above  the  level  marshes,  swam  in  the 
distant  haze  the  great  hotels  at  the  Point  of 
Pines. 


36  The  Puritan  Coast. 

But  I  will  leave  the  reader  to  follow  his 
will  in  Lynn,  stopping  to  visit  the  Lynn 
Woods  with  beautiful  lakes,  rocky  hills, 
far-reaching  views  of  coast  and  country, 
lonely  swamps,  Dungeon  Rock,  and  romantic 
Pirates'  Glen,  or  else  to  wheel  on,  past  the 
long  beautiful  common,  and  through  the  busy 
streets  of  humming  labor  and  bustling  trade, 
to  the  ocean  and  the  shore. 


Here  where  these  sunny  waters  break, 

And  ripples  this  keen  breeze,  I  shake 

All  burdens  from  the  heart,  all  weary  thoughts  away. 

WHITTIER. 

WHEN  the  wind  is  easterly,  one  hears  the 
long  roar  of  the  breakers  while  he  is  yet  jolt- 
ing over  the  pavement  of  Beach  Street,  and 
although  there  is  a  summer  hotel  at  the  foot 
of  the  street,  a  sudden  and  strange  remoteness 
from  city  life  comes  with  the  sight  of  the 
sea.  To  the  left,  a  path  leads  to  Red  Rock 
and  Swampscott.  To  the  right,  is  the  long 
and  narrow  isthmus  of  beach  and  road  which 
connects  Lynn  and  Nahant.  On  one  side 


38  The  Puritan  Coast. 

lies  the  city,  its  spires  and  chimneys  rising 
through  a  light,  merciful  haze,  and  crowned 
with  the  smoke  of  labor,  the  shore  growing 


Boais  on  the  shore,  Lynn  Beach. 


fainter  and  fainter  until  lost  in  the  thicken- 
ing mist  to  the  westward.  On  the  strand 
near  by  some  yachts  were  drawn  up  about  an 
old  hulk,  in  a  confusion  of  blocks,  ropes,  and 


The  Shore.  39 

drying  sails.  Overhead,  a  few  gulls  wheeled 
lazily,  calling  querulously,  while  some  hun- 
dreds of  their  fellows  perched  in  white  lines 
on  the  tide-left  bars  below. 

On  the  other  side,  the  sea  was  beating  in 
on  the  wonderfully  fine  beach  sprung  like  a 
bow  between  the  rocks  of  Lynn  and  Little 
Nahant.  Long  rollers  of  the  coming  tide, 
sometimes  in  ranks  of  as  many  as  five, 
pounded  and  thundered  in  the  morning  sun- 
light that  fell  in  almost  unbearable  bright- 
ness on  their  curving  crests.  Half  lost  to 
the  troubled  sight,  were  outlying  rocks  in 
the  haze  beyond  the  burnished  light  of  the 
reflected  sun,  where,  all  mist-interwoven, 
blended  the  sea  and  sky. 

The  Nahant  road  is  fine,  and  it  is  a  charm- 
ing, breezy  ride.  However,  the  wind  has 
such  an  unchecked  sweep  across  these  sands, 
that  a  struggle  against  it  is  sometimes  more 
of  a  task  than  a  pleasure.  Curving  gently 
towards  Little  Nahant,  the  road  rises  slightly 
above  the  shore,  which  is  overhung  by  bay- 


40  The   Puritan  Coast. 

berry,  blackberry,  and  wild  roses,  and  strewn 
with  tumbled  bowlders,  the  advanced  guard 
of  the  Nahant  Cliffs. 

In  the  harbor  was  a  tug  outgoing  with  its 
tow,  and  from  the  mystery  of  the  westward 
haze  came,  as  an  echo  to  the  roar  of  the  surf, 
the  distant  thunder  of  a  train  hurrying  from' 
one  city  to  another.  The  chirp  of  land-birds 
blended  with  the  cry  of  wheeling  gulls;  fish- 
ermen were  mending  nets  near  the  shore,  and 
cows  grazing  in  the  marshy  meadows  between 
the  harbor  and  the  sea,  all  in  the  mingled 
scents  of  field  and  ocean. 


AFTER  passing  Nahant 
Beach  between  Little  and 
Great  Nahant,  our  road 
turns  to  the  left,  and  mounts  the  hill  be- 
tween the  school-house,  under  its  flag,  and 
the  engine  house  with  its  tower.  One 
looks  back  over  road  and  cottages  and  the 
crescent-shaped,  foam-fringed  beach  to  the 
mainland  beyond. 

The  second  turn  to  the  left,  after  passing 
the  schoolhouse,  leads  down  the  hill  to  a 
queer  and  picturesque  temple,  crowning  a 
rock  upheaved  in  the  side  hill  and  backed 
by  a  disorderly  thicket  of  poplars.  Columns 


42  The  Puritan  Coast. 

of  rough-hewn  stone  uphold  a  roof  orna- 
mented with  medallions  in  dusky  gold,  of 
mermen  and  mermaids,  sea-horses  and  sea- 


The  old  rock  temple. 


gods.  Built  in  1861,  it  is  all  that  is  left 
of  the  once  popular  resort,  "The  Maolis 
Gardens. " 


Nahant.  43 

At  the  end  of  the  shore  road,  by  a  wood- 
bine-covered rustic  fence  and  gate,  a  path 
leads  down  a  few  rough  steps  and  straggles 
along  the  cliff  above  rocky  buttresses  of  pur- 
ple, black,  and  ruddy  sienna,  accentuated  by 
spots  of  yellow  and  cool  gray.  Down  into 
its  edge  creep  weeds  and  grasses  gay  with 
wild  flowers.  The  sea  breaks  below  on  a 
confusion  of  many-colored  rocks,  lifting  in 
its  every  undulation  the  rockweed  which 
shows  in  the  coming  wave  as  in  a  tent  of 
crystal. 

Soon  the  path  rises,  passing  sometimes 
over  the  bare,  shelving,  wind-swept  rock, 
until,  at  the  top  of  a  cliff,  one  comes  to  a 
seat  of  stout  plank  bolted  to  granite  posts. 
It  commands  a  fine  and  far-reaching  view. 

To  the  northeast  is  Swampscott,  on  its 
topmost  point  the  new  High  School,  and 
away  in  the  distance,  changing,  serrated 
spots  of  foam  discover  the  rocky  islets  off 
Marblehead.  Eastward,  under  the  sea's 
rim,  the  waves  dash  high  about  Egg  Rock, 
named  from  the  great  quantities  of  gulls' 


44  The  Puritan  Coast. 

eggs  found  there  by  the  early  settlers.  From 
its  lantern,  a  red  warning  goes  forth  into 
the  night.  Near  at  hand,  the  sunken  ledges 
now  and  then  betray  their  presence,  as  they 
break  the  incoming  swell  into  great  bouquets 
of  foam. 

At  the  foot  of  the  cliff  is  Spouting  Horn, 
seen  best  by  going  down  at  the  right  to  the 
flat  ledges  below.  The  waves,  breaking  on 
the  rocks,  rush  into  a  narrowing  channel, 
and  in  a  second  or  two  a  puff  of  foam  and 
spray  shoots  upward  and  outward,  back  to  the 
sea,  carrying  on  its  breast  a  little  rainbow. 

If  we  may  credit  tradition,  in  these  waters 
is  the  lair  of  the  sea-serpent.  We  read  that 
he  was  occasionally  seen  here  in  the  summer 
of  1817  by  "Hundreds  of  curious  specta- 
tors," who  declared  that  he  was  as  long  as 
the  mainmast  of  a  "seventy -four,"  with  a 
"shaggy  head"  and  "glittering  eye."  Re- 
wards were  offered  for  his  capture;  it  is 
needless  to  say  that  they  were  offered  in 
vain!  John  Josselyn,  Gent.,  who  visited  the 


Nahant.  45 

coast  in  1638,  averred  that  his  snake-ship 
was  seen  "  Quoiled  up  on  a  rock  at  Cape 
Ann."  At  other  times,  mention  is  made  of 
his  appearance  off  Cape  Ann,  but  Nahant 

Bay  seems  to  have  been  his  favorite  resort. 

* 

There  is  a  charming  arrangement  of  path 
and  shore,  to  a  stile  at  the  top  of  a  long 
flight  of  steps,  fringed  with  graceful  willows 
and  descending  to  Stony  Beach ;  then  a  turn- 
stile, and  between  the  two,  the  path  loses  its 
rustic  character  and  becomes  a  mere  walk  of 
crushed  stone,  bordering  an  irreproachable 
lawn  with  cultivated  shrubs  and  brilliant 
flowering  plants.  Turning  the  headland  and 
almost  doubling  on  itself,  the  path  changes 
to  a  plank  walk,  and  leads  back  to  Nahant 
Road.  Here  is  a  long  hospitable  bench 
overhanging  Bass  or  The  Forty  Steps  Beach, 
with  a  fine  view  of  a  retired  and  singularly 
beautiful  cove  with  East  Point  on  its  other 
side,  and  in  its  middle  Castle  Rock.  So 
sheltered  is  it  here,  that  only  the  roughest 
weather  can  trouble  the  cove's  calm  waters. 


46  The  Puritan  Coast. 

Nahant  is  an  Indian  name  meaning  "the 
twins."  Captain  John  Smith,  in  1614,  named 
the  spot  the  Fullerton  Isles;  for  before  the 
connecting  roads  were  built  the  high  tides 
may  have  made  seeming  islands  of  the  two 
peninsulas.  Indeed,  from  a  vessel's  deck, 
mariners,  wary  of  this  rock-picketed  coast, 
might  easily  have  thought  them  sea-girt. 

A  suit  of  clothes  was  the  price  paid  Saga- 
more Poquanum  for  the  whole  place  by  the 
settlers  of  Lynn,  of  which  town  it  was  a  part 
until  1853.  Like  all  the  islands  about  Bos- 
ton Harbor,  it  is  said  to  have  been  heavily 
wooded  once ;  but  it  was  early  cleared,  leav- 
ing it  at  once  as  treeless  and  bleak  as  the 
islands  are  to-day.  In  the  first  half  of  our 
century,  thousands  of  trees  were  planted  by 
public-spirited  men  from  Boston.  Willows 
and  poplars  seem  to  have  thriven  best  on  its 
wind-swept  turf.  The  peninsula  was  used, 
after  its  purchase,  as  a  common  pasture; 
then  came  the  Breeds,  the  Hoods,  and  the 
Johnsons,  first  lords  of  the  soil,  wresting  a 
living  from  pasture  and  sea  until  the  natural 


Nahant.  49 

beauty  of  the  place  and  its  healthful  summer 
climate  brought  wealthy  families  from  Bos- 
ton and  Salem;  and  amongst  them  were 
scholarly  men  of  genius,  who  found  compan- 
ionship and  help  in  the  presence  of 

"  The  grand  majestic  symphonies  of  ocean." 

Unhappily,  the  houses  in  which  these 
famous  men  lived  and  labored  have  been 
destroyed  or  very  much  altered.  Prescott 
worked  here  at  his  "  Ferdinand  and  Isa- 
bella," his  "Conquest  of  Mexico,"  and  his 
"Philip  the  Second."  His  house  overlooked 
Swallow's  Cave,  and  has  been  much  changed. 
Motley  began  his  "  Dutch  Republic  "  in  Mrs. 
Hannah  Hood's  cottage,  which  stood  in  a  cor- 
ner of  what  is  now  the  George  Upham  estate, 
opposite  Whitney's  Hotel.  When  torn 
down,  it  was  the  oldest  house  on  Nahant. 
Mrs.  Annie  Johnson,  the  Nahant  poet,  re- 
members well  when  Longfellow  boarded  with 
her  father,  Jonathan  Johnson.  There  he 
wrote  a  part  of  "Hiawatha."  The  house 
was  on  the  Main  Street ;  a  few  years  ago  it 
4 


50  The  Puritan  Coast. 

was  sold  at  auction,  moved,  and  entirely  re- 
modelled. Longfellow  also  boarded  with 
Mrs.  Hannah  Hood,  and  later  bought  the 
Wetmore  place,  and  lived  there  many  years. 
Latterly,  the  house  was  known  as  the  Long- 
fellow cottage;  it  was  burned  May  18,  1896. 
Professor  Agassiz  had  also  a  summer  home 
here. 

No  doubt  it  was  partly  its  convenient 
nearness  to  Boston,  as  well  as  its  climate 
and  beauty,  which  led  these  men  to  choose 
the  place  for  residence.  In  fact,  it  is  the 
very  closeness  of  the  Nahant  cliffs  to  the 
hived  life  of  cities  which  freshens  and  mag- 
nifies the  impression  produced  by  the  ocean. 
Within  sound  of  bells  in  city  steeples,  its 
surf  thunders  on  sand  or  rock,  and  the  long 

o 

rumble  of  heavy  trains  is  heard  in  the  pauses 
of  roaring  breakers.  Nowhere  on  the  coast 
is  one  more  impressed  by  the  sea  than  here. 
On  the  cliffs  at  Magnolia,  over  the  abyss  of 
Rafe's  Chasm  and  fateful  Norman's  Woe,  or 
by  the  lonely  rocks  of  Folly  Cove  or  Land's 
End,  we  may  be  more  alone  with  nature, 


Nahant.  53 

but  at  Nahant  the  sharp  contrast  between 
the  city  and  the  shore  is  felt  with  keenest 
pleasure. 

At  the  end  of  Nahant  Road,  on  the  other 
side  of  Bass  Beach  and  Castle  Rock,  there  is 
a  path  passing,  at  the  rear  of  Henry  Cabot 
Lodge's  house,  up  rough  steps  by  sumachs 
and  struggling  poplars,  to  the  cliffs;  and 
here  is  a  grand  view  of  Boston  Harbor  and 
Massachusets  Bay. 

Directly  underneath  is  Pulpit  Rock,  a 
great  mass  jutting  out  over  the  water,  and 
named  from  its  fancied  resemblance  to  a  pul- 
pit. On  its  top  is  the  suggestion  of  a  Bible 
and  prayer-book.  At  its  left,  in  the  chasm 
crossed  by  the  little  wooden  bridge,  is  an 
arch  called  the  Natural  Bridge,  and  at  the 
right  is  Sappho's  Rock.  The  walk  over- 
hanging the  hollow,  resounding  chasms  and 
jagged  ledges  leads  on  to  East  Point,  a  van- 
tage ground  for  viewing  the  surf;  even  on 
a  calm  day  it  rushes  angrily  over  the  ledges, 
to  be  churned  to  foam  against  the  resisting 


54  The  Puritan  Coast. 

rocks.  A  great  hotel,  the  pride  of  the  coast, 
was  built  here  in  1824,  and  was  burned  in 
1861.  All  that  is  left  of  it  now  is  the  bil- 
liard-hall, a  little  temple-like  structure 
crowning  the  Point,  lonely  and  picturesque. 


After  returning  to  Nahant  Road,  the  first 
turn  to  the  left  leads  past  the  oddly  placed 
little  delta  of  vegetable  garden,  shrub  and 
flower-hid,  to  the  shore,  westward.  Here  is 
Swallow's  Cave,  said  to  be  seventy  feet  deep, 


Nahant. 


55 


fourteen  feet  wide  in  places,  and  as  much  as 
twenty  feet  in  height.  I  know  nothing  to 
the  contrary ;  and  advise  all  doubters  to  for- 
sake the  wheel  for  a  dory,  and  make  what 
should  be  a  most  interesting  investigation. 


Longfellow  Cottage. 

On  the  way  back,  the  first  left  leads  to 
Cliff  Street,  and  a  pretty  vine-clad  church; 
whence,  by  turning  again  to  the  left,  one 
comes  to  Willow  Road,  the  way  to  Bass 
Point  and  West  Cliff,  thus  completing  the 


56  The  Puritan  Coast. 

circuit  of  Great  Nahant,  and  leading  back 
to  Nahant  Road  and  Lynn. 

Just  around  the  corner  of  Cliff  Street,  on 
Willow  Road,  stood  the  Longfellow  cottage. 
It  was  French  roofed,  and  had  sightly  ver- 
andas. A  large  window  in  the  roof  lighted 
the  studio  of  the  poet's  artist  son.  At  the 
back,  it  overlooked  all  Boston  Harbor.  Here 
the  poet  lived  and  wrote  in  sight  and  hear- 
ing of  the  sea. 

"  Ah  !  what  pleasant  visions  haunt  me 

As  I  gaze  upon  the  sea ! 
All  the  old  romantic  legends, 

All  my  dreams,  come  back  to  me."  * 

Across  Lynn  Bar,  as  the  harbor  is  called, 
over  the  headland,  when  day  is  done,  still 
come  the  "sounds  aerial"  of  the  bells  of 
Lynn.  A  few  years  ago,  an  order  was  in- 
troduced in  the  city  government  to  stop  the 
ringing  of  these  evening  bells.  But  too  many 
of  the  old  stock  still  lived,  in  whose  hearts, 
from  childhood,  this  New  England  angelus 
had  found  an  echo;  and  so  the  Philistines 

i  The  Secret  of  the  Sea. 


Nahant.  57 

were  routed.     As  they  came  to  the  poet  so 
long  ago,  they  still  come  — 

"  Borne  on  the  evening  wind  across  the  crimson  twi- 
light." 

"  The  distant  lighthouse  hears,  and  with  his  flaming 

signal 

Answers  you,  passing  the  watchword  on,  O  Bells  of 
Lynn  ! 

"  And  down  the  darkening  coast  run  the  tumultuous 

surges, 

And  clap  their  hands,  and  shout  to  you,  O  Bells  of 
Lynn ! 

"  Till  from  the  shuddering  sea,  with  your  wild  incanta- 
tions, 
Ye  summon  up  the  spectral  moon,  O  Bells  of  Lynn! 

"  And  startled  at  the  sight,  like  the  weird  woman  of 

Endor, 
Ye  cry  aloud,  and  then  are  still,  O  Bells  of  Lynn !  " 


LITTLE  is  left  in  Lynn  of  old  times,  for  it 
has  changed  wonderfully.  It  seems  not  long 
ago  that  much  of  the  manufacturing  was  done 
in  the  little  door-yard  shops,  once  so  com- 
mon, or  in  the  homes  themselves.  The 
spare  minutes  of  every  housewife  were  given 
to  binding  shoes.  Piles  of  flat-folded  vamps 
stood  in  some  handy  corner,  and  near  by  the 
women  sat  and  day-dreamed,  or  gossiped  as 
they  sewed.  Now  all  work  is  done  in  the 
great  factories  of  this  the  greatest  "  shoe 
town"  in  the  world. 

Such  a  bustling  city  seems  an  unlikely 
home  for  romance.  Yet  under  the  shadow 
of  High  Rock  lived  Moll  Pitcher,  witch  and 


Lynn  and  Swampscott.  59 

fortune-teller;    in   the    fastnesses    of    Lynn 
Woods  pirates  made  their 
lair,   and,    if  we    may   be- 
lieve   tradition,    Dungeon 
Rock  still  guards 
ill-gotten  treasure. 

When  the  shoe- 
shops  and  mills  of     ~^-' 
busy    Lynn,    and 
noise,    and    stone- 
paved    roads   have 
been    left    behind, 
there    comes   the 
evidence    of   pros- 
perity   and    rewarded    in- 
dustry with  the  well-kept 
roads, villa-lined,  to  Swamp- 
scott.     It  is    a   mile    and 
more    of    good     wheeling 
from    the    fine    colonial 
house  of  the  Oxford  Club, 
by  Nahant  and  Ocean  Streets,  to  Humphrey 
Street,  in  concentric  curve  with  King's  Beach.1 

1  Lewis  calls  this  Humphrey's  Beach. 


Moll  Pitcher 


60  The  Puritan  Coast. 

First  of  the  Swampscott  beaches,  it  is  sep- 
arated from  the  road  by  old  fish-houses  and 
modest  cottages  whose  erratic  back-yards, 
gay  with  the  yellow  of  sunflowers  and  nas- 
turtiums, make  a  bright  background  to  the 
oddly-littered  sands,  —  sands  gray,  moist,  soft 
underfoot,  fit  for  old-fashioned  sanded  floors 
in  country  inns  and  kitchens.  Fish-nets  hang 
drying  from  the  garden  fences,  or  trail  their 
sinuous  length  along  the  beach.  Lobster- 
pots,  and  fish-cars,  buoys,  blocks,  floats,  and 
anchors  lie  about  the  sands  and  the  drawn  up 
dories. 

The  Swampscott  dory  is  the  safest  of  boats, 
if  handled  properly,  and  any  one  needs  a 
good  boat  who  must  gain  his  living  over  the 
sunken  ledges  of  this  perilous  coast.  It  is  a 
picturesque  sight  to  see  the  fishermen  set 
forth  or  come  in  through  the  morning  surf. 
In  former  years  a  large  fleet  of  vessels  sailed 
from  Swampscott  for  deep-sea  fishing,  sum- 
mer and  winter.  Now,  only  a  few  are  left, 
and  most  of  the  fishing  is  done  from  dories 
near  the  shore.  "  Fish  are  scurce,"  is  the 


Lynn  and  Swampscott.         61 

complaint;  and  the  appearance  of  weirs 
along  the  coast  seems  to  promise  that  they 
may  be  "  scurcer."  There  is  no  harbor,  and 


Fisherman's  Beach. 


the  boats  lie  at  moorings  off  the  beaches  in 
Nahant  Bay. 

Next  comes  Blaney's  or  Fisherman's  Beach, 
longer,  busier,  with  more  dories,  fishermen, 


62  The  Puritan  Coast. 

and  fish-houses,  —  the  real  fishing  centre. 
Before  reaching  it,  the  road,  always  with 
glimpses  of  the  sea,  passes  the  soldiers' 
monument,  backed  by  very  fine  residences, 
on  streets  laid  out  through  Paradise  Woods. 

Orient  Street  follows  the  shore  closely,  and 
where  it  turns  away  from  the  beach  there  is 
a  pleasant  look  backward  over  the  bay  and 
town.  From  the  shore  of  mingled  rock  and 
sand,  the  land  rises  in  diversified  and  culti- 
vated beauty,  and  stretches  away  westward  to 
the  shores  of  Lynn  and  Nahant.  The  road 
is  perfect,  and  one  is  tempted  to  covet  the 
shaded  seats  on  these  lawns,  lulled  by  the 
sea. 

From  the  little  summer-house  overlooking 
Whale  Beach,  opposite  the  Ocean  House,  may 
be  seen  the  cliffs  of  the  South  Shore  at  Scitu- 
ate,  showing  faintly  beyond  Nahant  and  Egg 
Rock.  To  the  left,  the  beach  curves  sharply 
to  the  wooded  shore  of  Phillips'  Point, 
Tedesco  Rocks,  and  Dread  Ledge. 

The  ledge's  ominous  name  might  well  be 
borne  by  all  the  rocky  chain  of  reefs  and 


Lynn  and  Svvampscott.          63 

rocks  off  this  dangerous  coast.  While  the 
summer  wind  just  fringes  them  with  white,  it 
is  hard  to  imagine  how  awful  and  sinister  is 
their  aspect  when  swept  by  the  black  waters 
of  winter  tempests.  One  January  night,  in 
1857,  the  ship  Tedesco  was  lost  on  those 
cruel  rocks,  and  all  on  board  perished  pite- 
ously.  The  tormented  sea  tore  and  ground 
the  vessel  piece-meal,  and  then  hurled  her 
great  anchors  after  the  debris  high  upon  the 
resisting  rocks;  and  there  they  were  found  in 
the  morning  by  the  townsmen,  amid  the  other 
wreckage,  and  the  dead  bodies,  all  awful  wit- 
nesses of  the  sea's  mighty  power. 

But  in  cycling  weather  all  is  peace,  and 
from  the  sunny  beach  the  road  rises  over  the 
point  to  the  dense  cool  shade  of  giant  willows 
and  maples.  Then,  as  it  grows  sunny  again, 
oaks  begin  to  mingle  with  the  willows,  which 
seem  to  be  the  typical  trees  of  Swampscott. 
Under  their  branches  the  old  stone  walls  are 
fringed  with  sumachs  and  birches,  and  rocky 
ledges  crop  out  from  their  coverings  of  sweet 


64  The  Puritan  Coast. 

fern  and  bayberry.  Suddenly  cool  breezes 
come  again  from  the  sea,  and,  over  the  wav- 
ing roadside  tansy  and  goldenrod,  glimpses  of 
blue  water  between  swaying  trees ;  then,  seen 
across  green  level  fields,  rise  the  picturesque 
profiles  of  Clifton  and  Marblehead  Neck. 

From  Humphrey  Square,  level  and  broad 
Atlantic  Avenue  is  lined  on  one  side  with 
fine  residences  of  the  modern  American  type, 
which  at  its  best  is  often  extremely  pictur- 
esque, while  on  the  other  side  the  unoccu- 
pied land  slopes  gently  to  Phillips'  Pond  and 
Beach,  and  is  crossed  by  a  pretty  lane  under 
apple-boughs  drooping  with  reddening  fruit. 
In  springtime  their  white  and  pink  blossoms 
count,  in  telling  masses,  against  the  tender 
blues  and  greens  of  sky  and  water. 

In  fact,  this  "  stern  and  rock  bound  coast " 
is  richly  beautiful  in  color.  Beyond  Beach 
Bluff,  its  craggy  hillsides  are  dotted  with 
softly  rounded  clumps  of  willow,  turning  sil- 
ver in  the  breeze,  though  touched  by  autumn 
with  lemon  yellow,  the  slopes  and  marshy 
places  are  splashed  broadly  with  goldenrod 


Lynn  and  Swampscott.  65 

and  tansy,  with  the  dull  rich  red  of  Joe  Pye 
Weed,  and  the  sombre  purple  of  ripe  elder- 
berries ;  in  the  hollows,  squares  of  strange 
blue,  green,  and  dye-like  purple  cabbages 
alternate  with  pumpkins  and  squashes  in 
every  gradation  of  yellow  and  orange;  and 
all  this  brightness  is  interwoven  with  the 
bronze  greens  and  browns  of  foliage  made 
splendid  here  and  there  by  the  scarlets  and 
gold  of  early  autumn  leaves. 


WHEN  one  turns  again  toward  the  sea,  it 
is  by  the  little  greenhouse  and  the  bit  of 
meadow  made  gay  by  bunches  of  changeful 
hydrangeas  and  flaming  cannas.  The  large 
house  across  the  fields,  over  the  strong  stone 
wall,  is  the  Devereux  Mansion,  — a  modern 
house  on  the  site  of  the  old  farmhouse  visited 
by  Longfellow  in  1846,  and  celebrated  in  his 
poem  "The  Fire  of  Driftwood." 

"  We  sat  within  the  farmhouse  old, 

Whose  windows,  looking  o'er  the  bay, 
Gave  to  the  sea-breeze  damp  and  cold 
An  easy  entrance  night  and  day." 

The  farmhouse  has  been  gone  a  long  time, 
and  the  farm  itself  cut  up  into  many  house- 


Marblehead. 


67 


lots;  but  the  good  old-fashioned  barn  still 
opens  its  wide  doors  at  the  end  of  the 
lovely  elm-shaded  approach. 

Here,  through  the 
warm  summer  after- 
noons and  evenings, 
the  air  is  filled  with 
the  rumble  of  car- 


Eastern  Yacht  Club. 


riages  rolling  through  the  narrow  street; 
for  it  is  a  favorite  drive,  and  leads  past 
the  ruins  of  the  old  fort  and  over  the  narrow 


68  The  Puritan  Coast. 

causeway  by  Marblehead  Beach  to  Marble- 
head  Neck. 

All  around  this  rugged  peninsula  are  fine 
drives  and  walks,  with  broad  ocean  views  on 
one  side,  and  on  the  other  pleasant  outlooks 
over  the  harbor  to  the  old  town.  Here  are 
the  headquarters  of  yachting  in  the  East,  and 
the  houses  of  the  Eastern  and  Corinthian 
yacht  clubs. 

About  the  shore  are  curious  formations  in 
the  rocks,  and  grand  places  for  watching  the 
eddying  tides,  either  in  upspringing  surf  or 
restful  open  sea.  But  the  finest  entertain- 
ment Marblehead  offers  is  not  there,  but 
rather  on  the  harbor  side,  at  sunset.  Then 
the  old  town,  rising  with  picturesque  profile, 
is  empurpled  against  the  richly  luminous 
sky,  and  the  calm  deep  waters  of  the  harbor 
reflect  the  glowing  colors  of  a  picture  remem- 
bered with  delight. 

The  way  to  the  old  town  by  land  is  back 
over  the  causeway  and  then  to  the  right.  A 
little  brook  comes  from  the  pond  by  the 


Marblehead.  69 

Devereux  Mansion  under  great  trees,  and, 
after  crossing  the  road,  wanders  off  through 
the  meadow  beyond  which  lies  Marblehead. 

"  The  strange  old-fashioned  silent  town, 
The  lighthouse,  the  dismantled  fort, 
The  wooden  houses  quaint  and  brown." 

Was  the  color  adjective  well  chosen? 
"Gray"  would  have  been  more  truthful. 
I  remember  Marblehead  years  ago,  much 
less  tricked  out  with  paint.  When  I  was 
looking  for  the  scenes  of  Agnes  Surriage's 
girlhood,  not  long  ago,  Old  Floyd  Oirson's 
house  was  clothed  with  that  soft  gray  mantle 
which  our  New  England  weather  casts  over 
unpainted  wood.  Now  it  is  bright  yellow ! 

This  passion  or  necessity  for  paint,  vary- 
ing in  tint  with  the  caprice  of  house-owners, 
is  the  reason  our  towns  have  such  a  motley 
color-effect.  In  the  Old  Country,  the  build- 
ing is  mostly  of  stone,  generally  quarried  in 
the  neighborhood.  This  gives  a  uniform 
breadth  of  effect,  and  is  in  subtle  harmony 


70  The  Puritan  Coast. 

with  the  landscape.  Here,  on  the  contrary, 
we  may  have  a  cinnamon-colored  house  be- 
tween one  of  a  virulent  green  and  another  of 
a  bilious  blue,  these  in  turn  flanked  by 
pumpkin  yellow  and  slaughter-house  red. 
Where  the  colors  are  not  so  "loud,"  they 
simply  run  the  scale  of  the  dealer's  sample- 
card  of  ready-mixed  tints.1  There  is  the 
same  difference  between  the  natural  color 
of  stone  or  wood  and  of  paint,  that  there  is 
between  the  fresh  complexion  of  a  young 
girl  and  the  rouged  and  powdered  cheeks  of 
an  actress. 

Washington,  when  he  visited  New  Eng- 
land; in  1789,  marvelled  at  the  houses  "being 
built  almost  entirely  of  wood  ...  as  the 
country  is  full  of  stone,  and  good  clay  for 
bricks."  The  people  told  him  that  "on 
account  of  the  fog  and  the  damp  they  deemed 
them  wholesomer,  and  for  that  reason  pre- 

1  Ruskin  says  somewhere  (I  think  in  "  Stones  of  Ven- 
ice ")  that  he  had  never  seen  a  painted  house  that  was 
satisfactory.  Yet  I  suppose  that  he  never  dreamed  of  the 
dreadful  combinations  which  we  see  every  day,  and  to 
which  we  have  not  only  grown  resigned  but  callous. 


Marblehead.  71 

ferred  wooden  buildings."  Recently,  the 
use  of  stains  and  the  shingling  of  walls, 
especially  when  the  shingles  are  left  to 
darken  naturally,  have  greatly  improved  the 
color-effect.  Of  course  stone  has  not  come 
into  vogue  except  in  cities,  and  the  people, 
for  many  reasons,  still  prefer  wood. 

Pleasant  Street  is  the  main  highway, 
with  its  electric  line  to  Lynn  and  Salem. 
On  the  right  is  the  Catholic  Church, 
"The  Star  of  the  Sea,"  near  where  the 
roadway  has  been  cut  through  a  part  'of 
"Work  House  Rock."  On  this  street  the 
vagaries  of  Marblehead's  builders  soon  ap- 
pear. Their  gable-ends  encroach  on  the 
street ;  many  of  the  houses  have  their 
entrance  on  the  side,  with  no  room  for 
porches,  but  with  miniature  terraced  gar- 
dens clambering  up  and  spilling  down  over 
the  rocks. 

Near  the  station  is  a  monument  to  the 
memory  of  the  brave  Captain  Mugford  and 
his  heroic  crew,  who  captured,  off  Boston 


72  The  Puritan  Coast. 

Harbor,  a  British  ship  laden  with  sorely 
needed  military  stores,  including  fifteen 
hundred  barrels  of  gunpowder  and  one  thou- 
sand carbines.  It  was  on  a  beautiful  day  in 
May,  1776,  when,  after  sending  in  his  prize 
to  Washington's  needy  army,  the  brave 
patriot  was  killed  while  defending  his  ship 
against  an  attack  by  the  British.  Just  one 
hundred  years  after,  this  monument  was 
erected. 

At  the  Universalist  Church,  Rockaway 
Street  falls  abruptly  to  a  hollow,  beyond 
which  rise  the  four  Hooper  houses  with 
their  terraced  back  gardens,  and,  above  them 
all,  the  tower  of  Abbot  Hall.  This  is  a 
typical  view  and  street.  On  the  left,  is 
Summer  Street,  old-fashioned  and  quiet, 
its  quaint  garden  gates  overhung  by  trees 
and  flowers.  Near  its  end  is  St.  Michael's, 
the  third  Episcopal  Church  in  Massachu- 
setts, and  the  fourth  in  all  New  England. 
Originally  the  church  had,  so  it  is  said, 
seven  gables,  a  tower,  and  spires,  and  must, 
as  Drake  says,  have  been  an  antique  gem. 


Marblehead. 


73 


St.  Michaels. 


Not  long  ago  it  was  hidden  by  jostling 
neighbors  rising  in  wooden  chaos  on  all 
sides,  and  had  to  be  approached  by  a  narrow 


74  The  Puritan  Coast 

lane.  Before  it  now  is  a  little  green,  but 
of  prodigal  dimensions,  for  Marblehead. 
A  tiny  God's  Acre  is  at  its  side,  hemmed  in 
by  crowding  walls.  The  church  was  built 
in  1714.  Its  interior,  with  quaint  antiqui- 
ties, is  worth  seeing.  Rev.  David  Mosson, 
who  performed  the  marriage  ceremony  of 
George  Washington  and  Mrs.  Custis,  was 
once  its  pastor.  Its  organ  came  from  St. 
Paul's,  New  York,  and  was  used  there 
when  Washington  was  inaugurated,  in 
1789. 

The  Lee  Mansion  is  reached  by  turning  to 
the  right,  and  keeping  around  the  corner. 
It  is  now  occupied  by  two  banks  ;  but  it 
was  once  the  grand  house  of  the  town, 
and  has  sheltered  Washington,  Lafayette, 
Andrew  Jackson,  and  President  Monroe. 
The  hall  and  staircase  are  interesting  ex- 
amples of  the  architecture  of  the  time  in 
which  it  was  built  —  about  1766.  Colonel 
Lee,  its  owner,  was  then  the  great  man  of 
Marblehead.  Though  a  zealous  churchman, 
who  might  naturally  have  been  expected  to 


Marblehead. 


75 


favor  the  Tories,  he  nevertheless  was  an 
ardent  patriot,  and  gave  his  fortune  and  his 
life  to  the  cause  of  liberty.  Open-air  expos- 


-  •*PTOy<3&>!»\£* 

T   -*f  .-jf  4  .  -~5|Br    }    '4  .  ivty  /  '  *'<**  *  •  ij 

Srjfi^S 

1  ill  •  jiii 


Lee  Mansion. 


ure  at  Arlington,  the  night  before  the  Battle 
of  Lexington,  brought  on  a  sickness  from 
which  he  finally  died. 

At   the  top  of  the  hill    is  Abbot    Hall, 


76  The  Puritan  Coast. 

built  in  1876-77,  with  money  left  by  Benja- 
min Abbot,  a  native.  It  contains  reading 
rooms,  a  library,  and  some  interesting  paint- 
ings. Its  spire  dominates  the  town  and 
commands  a  magnificent  view.  Before  the 
porch,  a  quiet  old  common  dozes  under  its 
elms. 

Behind  the  Hall,  Tucker  Street  tumbles 
down  the  hill  between  irregular  old  houses, 
packed  in  like  sardines,  but  still  finding  room 
for  little  plots  of  sea-brightened  flowers  :  old- 
fashioned  dahlias,'  bachelors'  buttons,  spot- 
ted tiger  lilies,  asters,  and  petunias.  A 
glimpse  of  the  harbor,  the  rocks,  and  cot- 
tages of  the  Neck  over  sweet  peas  and  clam- 
bering vines  in  the  tiny  front  yards;  then  a 
turn  to  the  right,  and  again  one  to  the  left, 
and  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill  is  Front  Street, 
long  and  rambling.  Along  its  length  the 
houses  stand  at  almost  every  angle ;  and  the 
yards  are  as  picturesque  as  the  houses.  All 
is  enveloped  in  a  pot  pourri  of  marine  smells 
from  oakum,  tar,  pitch,  and  fish,  its  saltiness 
strangely  attenuated  at  times  by  a  whiff  of 


Front  Street. 


Marblehead. 


79 


perfume   from   the   gardens.      On   the   left, 
encroaching  on   the  street,   is   the 
old  Tucker  house,  the  oldest  house 


-  ,.      - 

- 


"  The  backyards  are  as  picturesque  as  the  streets.'1 


here  of  which  there  is  any  accurate  record. 
Beyond    is    State    Street  ;    from   that   leads 


8o  The  Puritan  Coast. 

Glover  Street  to  General  Glover's  house, 
apparently  at  its  end;  but  Glover  Street 
continues  to  Front  Street,  so  that  there  is 
no  need  of  turning  back. 

Numbered  96,  nearly  opposite  the  black- 
smith shop  but  quite  a  way  back  from  the 
street,  is  the  house  of  the  General's  brother, 
Colonel  Glover.  This  old  mansion  has 
been  divided  into  two  tenements.  It  is 
further  shorn  of  its  dignity,  for  it  used 
to  stand  in  a  great  garden  edged  formally 
with  box,  perfumed  by  old-fashioned  roses, 
and  splendid  with  broad  sunflowers  and 
stately  holly-hocks,  and  on  either  side  of 
its  gate  two  high  posts  upheld  each  a 
gilded  eagle,  so  that  it  was  called  the  Eagle 
House. 

Twisting  and  turning,  in  and  out,  up  and 
down,  Front  Street  reaches  Oakum  Bay,  at 
the  end  of  the  electric  street  railway.  Now 
these  street-cars  do  not  in  the  least  make 
the  spot  prosaic  to  me.  Ponderous  and 
shrilly  complaining,  impelled  by  a  formless, 
unseen,  and  death-dealing  energy,  they  seem 


Tucker  House. 


Marblehead.  83 

in  no  wise  unfitting  visitors  from  the  city  of 
witchcraft  to  this  shore  which  for  so  long 
echoed  the  despair  of  "  The  shrieking  woman 
of  Marblehead." 

Thus  the  legend.  —  Two  centuries  and 
more  ago,  when  the  sun-blackened,  scarred, 
and  crime-etched  faces  of  buccaneers  from 
the  Spanish  Main  were  familiar  in  these  nar- 
row, rugged  streets,  a  Spanish  ship,  richly 
laden,  was  brought  into  the  harbor  by  her 
pirate  captors.  Every  one  of  the  ship's  com- 
pany had  been  butchered,  except  a  beautiful 
English  lady.  Her  they  brought  ashore  at 
Oakum  Bay  by  night,  and  most  foully  mur- 
dered. In  the  silence  of  the  dark,  her  heart- 
rending screams  were  heard  by  the  wives 
and  children  of  the  absent  fishermen,  and 
for  over  a  hundred  and  fifty  years,  on  each 
anniversary  of  the  dreadful  night,  the  cries 
for  mercy  of  the  terrified  woman  were  re- 
peated in  a  voice  shrill,  unearthly,  blood- 
curdling. This  story  was  believed  by  the 
most  intelligent  people  of  Marblehead.  Chief 
Justice  Story  "averred  that  he  had  heard 


84  The  Puritan  Coast. 

those  ill-omened  shrieks  again  and  again  in 
the  still  hours  of  the  night."1 

Looking  backward  from  here  up  Circle 
Street,  Floyd  Ireson's  house  is  seen  on  the 
right. 

•'  Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
.By  the  women  of  Marblehead !  " 

Skipper  "  Flud  Oirson,"  or  properly  Ben- 
jamin Ireson,  "sailed  away  from  a  sinking 
wreck  "  off  the  Highlands  of  Cape  Cod.  His 
defenders  claim  that  he  was  inclined  to  at- 
tempt the  rescue  of  the  unfortunates  on  the 
doomed  craft,  but  that  his  humane  disposi- 
tion was  overruled  by  the  unanimous  voice  of 
his  craven  crew.  Whatever  the  truth  may 
be,  there  is  no  doubt  that  he  suffered  a  most 
ignominious  punishment.  "  His  memory  has 
been  pilloried  in  verse  for  a  crime  he  did 
not  commit."1  Nor  is  it  the  best  testimony 
that  the  torture  was  carried  out  by  "the 

1  Drake. 


Pirates  in  Marblehead. 


Marblehead.  87 

women  of  Marblehead."1  However,  if  the 
fish-wives  of  his  day  were  true  descendants 
of  the  old  settlers,  they  were  quite  capable 
of  such  savagery;  for  we  have  the  testi- 
mony of  Increase  Mather,  "  in  a  letter  to 
Mr.  Cotton,  23d  of  Fifth  month,  1677," 
that  "  Sabbath  day  was  sennight,  the  women 
of  Marblehead,  as  they  came  out  of  the 
meeting-house,  fell  upon  two  Indians  that 
were  brought  in  as  captives,  and,  in  a 
tumultuous  way,  very  barbarously  murdered 
them." 

We  read,  too,  that  later  on,  over  in  Bev- 
erly, in  1777:  "About  60  women  marched  in 
regular  order  to  the  wharves,  and  seized  a 
quantity  of  sugar  which  merchants  had  re- 
fused to  sell  at  staple  prices  by  reason  of 
depreciated  currency." 

1  Mr.  Roads  says,  by  men  and  boys  he  was  tarred  and 
feathered  and  dragged  through  the  town  in  a  dory.  The 
bottom  fell  out  at  Work  House  Rock  (see  page  71)  and  he 
was  then  put  in  a  cart  and  hauled  as  far  as  Salem,  where 
the  authorities  forbid  the  rabble  entrance. 

In  a  letter  to  Mr.  Roads,  Whittier  writes :  "  I  knew 
nothing  of  the  particulars,  and  the  narrative  of  the  ballad 
was  pure  fancy." 


88  The  Puritan  Coast. 

The  women  of  the  North  Shore  were  doubt- 
less worthy  mates  for  their  rough  husbands. 

Front  Street  follows  around  Oakum  Bay 
to  Old  Fort  Sewall,  about  which  is  a  delight- 
ful walk.  Back  of  the  fort,  on  the  western 
slope  of  the  hill  overlooking  Little  Harbor, 
stood  the  lowly  cottage  in  which  Agnes  Sur- 
riage  lived  before  fortune  called  her  to 
the  Fountain  Inn,  there  to  meet  the  young 
nobleman  whose  love  was  to  raise  her  through 
joy  and  sorrow,  sin  and  repentance,  so  far 
above  her  childhood's  condition. 

The  site  of  the  old  hostelry  is  reached  by 
returning  on  Front  Street  to  Franklin  Street. 
At  the  end  of  the  latter  four  streets  meet, 
and  the  one  at  the  right,  Orne  Street,  winds 
by  picturesque  old  houses  and  corners  to  the 
old  burying-ground.  Just  before  reaching 
the  top  of  the  hill,  a  path  on  the  right  leads 
to  two  cottages,  with  an  old-fashioned  well 
under  the  shade  of  some  hardy  apple-trees. 
This  is  the  well  of  the  Fountain  Inn ;  the 
building  itself  probably  stood  on  the  corner 


Floyd  Ireson's  House. 


Marblehead. 


of  Orne  Street,  and  has  been  gone  many 
years.  The  old  well  was  for  a  long  time  for- 
gotten, and  was  discovered 
not  long  ago,  by  chance. 


Old  Well  of  Fountain  Inn. 


After  it  was  cleaned  out,  the  water  bubbled 
up  as  clear  and  refreshing  as  ever. 

The   strangely   romantic  story   of   Agnes 
has  been  told  many  times,1  however  I  ven- 

1  See,  in  particular,  Mr.  Bynner's  novel "  Agnes  Surriage," 
Dr.  Holmes'  poem  "  Agnes,"  and  the  Rev.  Elias  Mason's 


92  The  Puritan  Coast. 

ture  to  insert  here  an  outline  of  it  from  the 
account  by  the  Rev.  Elias  Mason. 

It  was  in  the  summer  of   1742  that  Sir 


Old  House  on  the  site  of 
the  Fountain  Inn. 


\ 


Harry  Frankland,  collector  of  his  Majesty's 
customs  at  Boston,  rode  up  this  hill  and,  dis- 
mounting at  the  Fountain  Inn,  chanced  upon 
the  beautiful  kitchen-wench. 

circumstantial  and  curious  account,  "  Sir  Charles  Henry 
Frankland,  Baronet." 


Sir  Harry  meets  Agnes  Surriage. 


Marblehead.  95 

"  Poor  Agnes  !  with  her  work  half  done, 

They  caught  her  unaware, 

As,  humbly,  like  a  praying  nun, 

She  knelt  upon  the  stair." 

The  young  baronet  found  her  washing  up 
the  floor  and  stairs.  Ragged  and  dirty 
clothes  could  not  dim  her  radiant  beauty. 
She  was  barefoot,  and  he  gave  her,  at  part- 
ing, a  crown  to  buy  herself  some  shoes  and 
stockings.  In  the  autumn,  Frankland  came 
again,  and  found  her  barefooted  as  before. 
To  his  questioning,  she  replied  that  she  had 
indeed  bought  shoes  and  stockings  with  the 
money  given  her;  but  that  such  finery  she 
kept  to  wear  on  Sundays  only.  The  sweet- 
ness of  her  voice,  as  he  heard  her  cheerfully 
singing  at  her  work,  her  beauty,  modesty, 
and  the  sprightliness  of  her  mind,  quite  cap- 
tivated him;  and  with  the  consent  of  her 
parents,  he  sent  her  to  Boston  to  be  edu- 
cated. She  was  taught  singing,  dancing, 
and  whatever  accomplishments  were  consid- 
ered necessary  to  a  fine  lady  at  that  time. 
All  this  was,  of  course,  at  Frankland 's  ex- 


96  The  Puritan  Coast. 

pense  and  under  his  direction ;  for  her  father, 
a  rough,  ignorant  fisherman,  was  always  at 
his  wits'  ends  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door. 

In  this  self-constituted  guardianship,  Sir 
Harry  and  his  beautiful  ward,  both  young, 
were  of  necessity  a  great  deal  together,  and 
a  natural  result  followed,  —  they  fell  in  love. 
For  years,  they  lived  together  in  Boston  arid 
Hopkinton.  In  1754,  he  was  called  home 
to  carry  on  a  suit-at-law,  and  Agnes  accom- 
panied him.  The  disdain  with  which  she 
was  received  by  his  noble  relatives  made  her 
feel  keenly  the  ignominy  of  her  false  posi- 
tion. It  was  therefore  with  pleasure  that, 
when  the  occasion  offered  itself,  they  em- 
barked for  Portugal. 

In  the  terrible  earthquake  at  Lisbon,  in 
1755,  Frankland  was  buried  in  the  ruins, 
and  was  in  great  peril  of  his  life.  Happily, 
by  the  energetic  devotion  of  his  loving  mis- 
tress, he  was  saved  from  a  living  tomb, 
wounded  in  body,  but  healed  in  mind.  His 
conscience  was  quickened,  and  he  at  once 
repaired  his  wrong  to  Agnes  by  making  her 


Lady  Fra.nkla.nd. 


Marblehead. 


99 


Lady  Frank  land.  Soon  afterwards,  they  re- 
turned to  England,  where  she  was  received 
with  affection  and  honor  by  his  family.  She 
outlived  her  husband,  and,  in  1782,  was 


"  Old  Brig,'"  Birthplace  of  Moll  Pitcher 

married  to  a  wealthy  banker  of  Chichester, 
England. 

Across  Orne  Street,  No.  42,  is  "The  Old 
Brig,"  where  Moll  Pitcher  passed  her  girl- 


ioo  The  Puritan  Coast. 

hood.  She  seems  to  have  inherited  her 
claim  to  supernatural  power  from  her  father, 
John  Dimond.  His  was  a  character  strangely 
picturesque,  whether  we  regard  him  as  an 
impostor  or  a  sincere  believer  in  his  own 
brainsick  pretensions.  The  historian  Drake 
says :  "  He  was  in  the  habit  of  going  to  the 
old  burying-ground  on  the  hill,  whenever  a 
violent  gale  at  sea  arose,  and  in  that  lonely 
place,  in  the  midst  of  the  darkness  and  the 
storm,  to  astound  and  terrify  the  simple 
fisher-folk  in  the  following  manner.  He 
would  direct  vessels  then  at  sea  how  to 
weather  the  roughest  gale,  — pacing  up  and 
down  among  the  gravestones,  and  ever  and 
anon,  in  a  voice  distinctly  heard  above  the 
howling  of  the  tempest,  shout  his  orders  to 
the  helmsman  or  the  crew,  as  if  he  were 
actually  on  the  quarterdeck  and  the  scene 
all  before  him.  Very  few  doubted  his  abil- 
ity to  bring  a  vessel  safely  into  port."  l 

On  the  top  of  the  hill  the  first  church  was 
built,   and   about  it  the  early  settlers  laid 

i  Drake. 


Marblehead. 


101 


their  dead,  in  the  earth-filled  crevices  of  the 
rocks.  The  church  was  moved  away  long 
ago;  but  burial  of  the  dead  there  has  long 
been  continued,  perhaps  to  the  present  time. 


'       General  Glover's  Tomb. 


General  Glover's  tomb  is  here,  and  Captain 
Mugford's  unknown  grave. 

At  the  highest  point  is  the  seamen's 
monument,  and  about  it  seats  and  a  shelter. 
On  the  benches  the  old  men  sit,  for  they  are 


IO2  The   Puritan  Coast. 

content  to  rest.  Their  weather-beaten  faces 
are  darkened  by  contrast  with  their  white 
beards  and  hair.  They  talk  of  the  past,  of 
the  sea,  of  ships  and  sailors.  The  broad 
horizon  of  the  deep  is  before  them,  and  about 
them  are  the  graves. 

On  the  rugged  hill  across  the  street  is 
Fountain  Park.  From  its  little  summer- 
house  is  an  unobstructed  view  of  the  harbor 
and  bay.  The  slope  below  is  littered  with 
the  picturesque  belongings  of  the  lobster 
men,  scattered  about  their  quaint  huts.  Once 
this  shore  was  lined  with  wharves,  and  the 
hill  covered  with  fish-flakes.  Here,  or  upon 
the  two  little  islands  near  by,  was  made  the 
first  settlement.  Orne  Street  continues  from 
the  hill  down  into  this  oldest  part  of  the 
town,  which  is  called  Barnegat.  At  its  end 
is  Peach's  Point  and  the  entrance  to  Salem 
Harbor.  Beyond  is  the  beautiful  Beverly 
and  Manchester  shore,  across  a  bay  dotted  by 
rocky  islets  and  dangerous  reefs  that  break  its 
breeze-whipped  waters  into  foam  and  spray, 


Marblehead. 


103 


white  accents  to  its  mingled  blue  and  green 
and  purple.     Beyond  all,  over  bay  and  fort 


Lobstemiad s  Hnt 


and  town   and   harbor,    the  ocean  stretches 
the  restful   monotony  of   its   blue   rim   till 


104 


The  Puritan  Coast. 


hidden  by  the  roof-trees  and  steeples  of  the 
old  town. 


s 


Old  Stone  Church. 


Orne  Street,  retraced  to  its  beginning, 
leads  to  Washington  Street.  On  the  right 
side  of  the  latter  is  the  old  "  North  Church," 
and  nearly  opposite  is  No.  44,  the  homestead 
of  Captain  Thomas  Gerry.  In  one  of  the  old 


Marblehead. 


105 


mansion's  chambers,  unchanged  to  this  day, 
was  born   the  captain's   distinguished   son, 


Elbridge  Gerry's  Birthplace. 


Elbridge  Gerry,  a  signer  of  the  Declaration 
of  Independence,  and  once  Vice-President 
of  the  United  States. 


io6  .The  Puritan  Coast. 

Farther  on,  stands,  in  the  middle  of  the 
road,  the  old  Town  House.  This  is  the 
Faneuil  Hall  of  Marblehead,  and  in  it 
the  town's  famous  Revolutionary  regiment, 
called  the  Amphibions,  was  recruited. 

At  the  right  of  the  Town  Hall,  Mugford 
Street  leads  up  a  slight  rise  to  the  Unita- 
rian church.  And  just  beyond  the  church, 
on  the  corner  of  Back  Street,  is  the  house 
in  which  the  brave  Captain  Mugford  set  up 
housekeeping  with  his  young  bride.  From 
here,  agitated  by  her  tearful  embrace,  he  set 
hopefully  forth  on  that  gallant  adventure,  so 
fruitfully  precious  to  his  countrymen,  and 
from  which  he  was  brought  back  dying,  to 
receive  from  his  young  wife  a  last  caress.  It 
was  into  the  house  by  the  church,  nearly 
opposite,  that  they  sadly  bore  him;  and 
there  he  breathed  his  last.  This  house  was 
her  home  before  marriage,  and  the  scene  of 
their  courtship;  it  belonged  to  her  father, 
John  Griste,  and  has  always  remained  in  the 
possession  of  the  family. 


' 


Marblehead.  109 

On  the  corner  of  Elm  Street  is  the  sol- 
diers' monument.  This  street  may  be  fol- 
lowed to  the  Salem  Road ;  but  it  is  pleasanter 
to  return  to  Washington  Street,  on  which, 
just  after  passing  the  town  hall  on  the  left, 
is  the  birthplace  of  Judge  Story.  The  old 
house  has  been  divided,  and  the  lower  story 
is  now  used  for  an  apothecary  shop. 

Pleasant  Street,  which  is  the  entrance,  is 
also  the  way  out  of  this  old-fashioned  town, 
the  quaintest  and  most  antique  on  the  coast. 
And  though  these  qualities  commend  it  to 
the  artist  and  the  antiquary,  it  must  to  all 
Americans  be  dear  for  the  independence, 
courage,  bravery,  and  ever-ready  patriotism 
of  its  adventurous  sons.  On  land  as  well 
as  by  sea,  in  every  hour  of  need,  they  have 
always  answered  unfalteringly  to  their  coun- 
try's call. 


"  THE  road  from  Salem  to  Marblehead,  four 
miles,  is  pleasant  indeed  (so  I  found  it)." 

So  wrote  John  Adams  in  1/76,  and  a  hun- 
dred and  twenty  years  afterwards  it  may 
again  truly  be  called  "  pleasant  indeed. "  All 
the  way,  by  open  fields  and  long  rows  of 
apple-trees,  it  is  good  wheeling.  At  the 
bend  of  the  road,  before  it  dips  to  Forest 
River,  there  should  be  a  fine  view  over  the 
valley;  but  it  is  cut  off  by  a  hideous  blue 
and  boastful  advertising  fence,  with  which 


Salem.  in 

another,  a  black  and  white  conundrum,  dis- 
putes dishonors. 

Below  the  bridge,  the  river  empties  into  a 
broad  lagoon  at  high  water,  and  at  low  water 
wanders  off  through  the  mud-flats  to  Salem 
Harbor.  Lafayette  Street,  a  fine  drive,  leads 
by  some  of  the  best  houses  to  Central  Street, 
which,  as  its  name  implies,  is  near  the  cen- 
tre of  the  city.  A  statue  has  been  raised 
here  to  that  apostle  of  temperance,  Father 
Mathew.  It  stands  appropriately  on  the  site 
of  a  spring  which  supplied  water  to  the  first 
settlers.  That  it  was  good  water  we  know. 
Did  not  old  Governor  Dudley  declare  there 
was  "  good  water  to  drinke  till  wine  or  beare 
can  be  made  "  ? 

The  early  comers  would  naturally  have 
settled  near  some  sweet  fountain  such  as 
this  was,  until  the  day  when  they  could  build 
houses  and  dig  wells.  In  fact,  near  by,  in 
Charter  Street,  is  an  old  witness  of  a  time 
not  far  removed  from  the  first  settlement, 
—  the  Charter  Street  Cemetery,  known  in 
early  days  as  "Burying  Point." 


1 1 2  The  Puritan  Coast. 

Now,  in  Salem,  the  stranger  is  mostly 
interested  in  those  things  connected  with  the 
Witchcraft  Delusion,  or  in  those  places  made 
precious  by  their  association  with  the  life 
and  work  of  Hawthorne.  And  in  the  old 
Charter  Street  Burying-ground  both  these 
interests  are  served,  for  here  lies  buried  the 
old  witch-judge,  Colonel  John  Hathorne,  and 
at  one  corner  stands  the  Grimshaw  house, 
in  which  Hawthorne  courted  his  wife.  This 
old  house,  practically  unchanged  to-day, 
figures  in  the  " Dolliver  Romance,"  and 
again  in  "Dr.  Grimshaw's  Secret,"  though 
in  no  agreeable  light,  which  seems  strange 
considering  that  Hawthorne  here  won  his 
wife,  and  that  his  memories  must  have  been 
far  removed  from  the  gloomy  pictures  of 
his  romance.  Its  garden  fence  is  close 
to  the  oldest  graves,  with  their  quaint, 
mouldering  headstones  and  curious  epitaphs. 
Here  lies  "Dr.  John  Swinnerton,  Physi- 
cian," who  appears  in  "The  House  of  the 
Seven  Gables,"  and  again  as  the  ancient 
apothecary  at  the  sign  of  "  The  Brazen  Ser- 


Salem.  113 

pent"  in  the  "Dolliver  Romance."  Near 
by  is  the  grave  of  Cotton  Mather's  younger 
brother  Nathaniel,  " '  An  aged  man  at  nine- 
teen years,'  saith  the  gravestone."  Here 
was  buried  Giles  Corey's  first  wife,  and 
in  the  cemetery  are  also  buried  "  Gov- 
ernor Bradstreet,  Chief  Justice  Lynde,  and 
others,  whose  virtues,  honors,  courage,  and 
sagacity  have  nobly  illustrated  the  history 
of  Salem." 

Essex  Street,  Salem 's  principal  thorough- 
fare, is  reached  by  Liberty  Street.  From 
the  corner  of  these  two  streets,  a  half 
block  to  the  left,  is  the  East  India  Marine 
Hall,  containing  extensive  collections  of 
historical  portraits,  natural  history  and  eth- 
nological specimens,  and  curiosities  of  many 
kinds. 

Nearly  opposite  the  corner  of  Liberty,  on 
the  other  side  of  Essex  Street,  are  the  Cadet 
Armory,  Plummer  Hall,  the  Salem  Athenaeum, 
and  the  Essex  Institute.  The  last  holds  col- 
lections of  paintings,  prints,  cooking  utensils, 


H4  The  Puritan  Coast. 

household  implements,  weapons,  pottery, 
china,  coins,  and  many  other  objects  of  inter- 
est.1 In  the  rear  of  the  Institute  is  the  frame 
of  the  first  Puritan  house  of  worship  in  the 
New  World.  It  may  be  visited  on  applica- 
tion to  the  secretary. 

The  third  street  on  the  right  beyond  the 
Institute  is  Union  Street.  In  the  modest 
gambrel-roofed  house  now  numbered  27, 
Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  the  great  romancer, 
was  born.  The  house  was  built  before  the 
witch-craft  delusion,  and  came  into  the  pos- 
session of  the  novelist's  grandfather  in  1772. 
The  house  itself  is  little  changed  since  Haw- 
thorne's birth ;  but  it  then  stood  in  a  garden, 
and  what  is  now  arid  and  unattractive  was 
sweet  with  blade  and  leaf  and  blossom.  Staid 
and  Sabbath  like  quiet  brooded  over  its  grass- 
edged  precincts,  and  its  ways  were  ordered 
by  New  England  thrift  and  neatness.  It  is 
hard  now  to  re-invest  the  place  with  that  old- 

1  Visitors  should  buy  the  "  Guide  to  Salem,"  pub- 
lished by  the  Institute ;  the  author  is  largely  indebted 
to  it. 


Salem. 

time  charm.  Too  near  and  evident  is  the 
untidy  ash-barrel,  too  pungent  the  odorous 
herring  and  cabbage,  too  distracting  the 


Hawthorne's  Birthplace 


shrill  quarrel  and  grating  discord  of  clamor- 
ous hucksters.  It  is  only  afterwards,  and  in 
the  mind's  eye,  that  it  is  possible  to  connect 
the  to-day's  fallen  estate  with  the  coming  of 
that  dreaming  weaver  of  romance. 


n6 


The  Puritan  Coast. 


Numbered  io|-  and  12  on  Herbert  Street, 
the  next  street  leading  from  Essex  Street, 
and  back  of  Hawthorne's  birthplace,  is  the 


The  Manning  Homestead. 


old  Manning  homestead,  the  property  of  his 
grandfather,  and  to  which  his  widowed  mother 
removed  in  1808,  when  Nathaniel  was  four 


Salem.  117 

years  old.  Most  of  his  boyhood  was  spent 
here ;  and  he  came  back  to  it,  at  intervals,  for 
longer  or  shorter  visits.  The  house  is  out- 
wardly square  and  ugly,  and  the  interior  has 
been  cut  up  into  tenements.  However,  it  is 
of  great  interest,  on  account  of  its  associa- 
tion with  his  early  work.  Hawthorne's  room 
was  in  the  southwest  corner  of  the  third  story, 
overlooking  his  birthplace.  Of  it,  he  himself 
has  written :  "  Here  I  sit  in  my  old  accus- 
tomed chamber,  where  I  used  to  sit  in  days 
gone  by.  Here  I  have  written  many  tales. 
Should  I  have  a  biographer,  he  ought  to 
make  great  mention  of  this  chamber  in  my 
memoirs,  because  so  much  of  my  lonely 
youth  was  wasted  here."  And  again :  "  In 
this  dismal  chamber  FAME  was  won." 

At  the  other  end  of  Herbert  Street  is 
Derby  Street,  and  on  the  corner  is  a  house 
to  which  Hawthorne  was  always  welcome, 
where  he  spent  a  part  of  his  time  in  a  cham- 
ber kept  ever  ready  for  him,  and  in  which, 
and  in  the  old  garden,  he  wrote  some  of  his 
earlier  stories.  Antique  and  dilapidated,  it 


n8 


The  Puritan  Coast. 


is   one  -of  the  most   picturesque    houses   in 
Salem  ;    for   the    summer-house,    where   the 


Where  Hawthorne  was 
always  welcome. 


romancer  loved  to  sit,  is  tumbling  to  pieces, 
and  the  garden  is  forlorn  in  its  neglect.  All 
sorts  of  weeds  grow  rankly  in  its  wastes,  and 


Salem.  121 

a  little  thicket  of  crowding  poplars  nearly 
hides,  with  the  gray  silver  of  their  leaves, 
the  purple  and  white  of  the  ancient  lilacs  and 
the  weather-beaten  grays  of  the  lower  story. 

At  No.  1 80  Derby  Street,  is  the  Crown- 
inshield  house,  in  the  eastern  side  of  which 
lived  General  James  Miller,  the  hero  of  Lundy's 
Lane.  On  the  opposite  corner  is  the  custom- 
house, built  of  brick,  with  wooden  columns, 
capitals,  and  balustrades,  with  a  broad  red- 
flagged  sidewalk,  and  generous  steps  and 
porch.  The  gilded  "  truculent  bird "  still 
perches  aloft,  and  "  the  flag  with  vertical 
bars  "  still  floats  over  all.  Hawthorne's  room 
is  shown  here;  but  the  desk  on  which  he 
scratched  his  name  is  now  at  the  Essex 
Institute.  One  of  the  upper  rooms  is  the 
scene  of  his  fictitious  discovery  of  the  em- 
broidered scarlet  letter,  and  his  interview 
with  the  spook  of  Surveyor  Pue. 

Across  the  street,  is  the  old  custom-house 
wharf,  edged  with  sheds  in  various  stages 
of  decrepitude  and  disuse.  Under  their 


122  The  Puritan  Coast. 

leaky  roofs  I  saw  some  old  horse-cars  that 
were  cast  away.  They  had,  in  their  youth, 
supplanted  the  stage-coaches  in  which  Haw- 
thorne's relatives  were  financially  interested, 
and  now  they  were  in  turn  displaced  by  the 
electric  cars.  Here  they  were  rotting  and 
rusting  away  like  those  very  stage-coaches 
in  which  Hawthorne  used  to  play  when  he 
was  a  boy.  And  fast  to  the  wharf  lay  a  great 
dismantled  ship,  the  "  Mindora,"  only  a  care- 
taker aboard.  She  paid  for  herself  on 
the  first  voyage,  but  after  thirty  years  of 
service,  the  competition  of  steam  had  so 
lowered  freights  that  it  no  longer  was  ex- 
pedient to  send  her  to  sea,  and  so  she  lies 
here  inactive,  to  deteriorate,  as  everything 
inactive  must.1  The  long  wharf  curves  at 
the  end,  like  the  beak  of  "  the  truculent  bird," 
and  at  its  end  is  a  little  light-house.  Across 
the  harbor,  the  shore  of  Marblehead  stretches 
northeasterly  to  Naugus  Head,  and  landward 
lies  the  dreary  water  front  of  Salem. 

1  Early  in  1897  the  "  Mindora  "  was  sold  and  towed  away 
to  be  altered  over  into  a  coal-barge. 


Hawthorne  and  the  wraith  of  Collector  Pile. 


Salem. 


Farther  down  Derby  Street  is  Turner  Street, 
on  which  is  an  old  house  that  belonged  to 


•   >£ 

.    ;/&-:% 

#S.f;-l}~' 

-&:        1  -^ 

P  v^rf 


Old  Custom  House  Wharf. 

the    Ingersols,   relatives  of  the   Hawthornes, 
a    house   to  which   the   romancer  was  a  fre- 


126  The  Puritan  Coast. 

quent  visitor.  It  is  the  last  dwelling  on  the 
right,  and  next  the  Seaman's  Bethel.  This 
house  is  called  "The  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables."  Originally  it  had  five  gables,  but 
they  have  disappeared  under  a  new  roof, 
Its  exterior  seems  modern  enough,  but  a 
visit  to  the  inside  will  show  that  it  is  truly 
very  old.  The  old  gables  may  be  traced  in 
the  attic ;  parts  of  the  house  are  pointed  out, 
which,  it  is  claimed,  agree  with  the  story. 
Really  the  house  may  have  had  but  a  small 
part  in  suggesting  to  Hawthorne  his  fanciful 
"  House  of  the  Seven  Gables,"  but  it  is  so 
closely  associated  with  the  author's  intimate 
life,  that  it  is  worth  a  visit. 

Turner  Street  leads  back  to  Essex  Street, 
and  from  the  latter  turns  Washington  Square, 
East,  which  bounds  one  side  of  the  large  and 
pleasant  common,  cut  by  paths  and  malls, 
and  shaded  by  beautiful  trees.  Many  of  the 
great  elms  were  planted  in  1802,  and  the 
common  was  then  used  as  a  training-field 
by  the  militia.  It  is  the  pleasantest  resting- 
spot  in  Salem. 


Salem.  127 

After  turning  into  Washington  Square, 
North,  the  third  street  on  the  right  is  Mall 
Street.  On  the  corner  is  a  curious  old- 
fashioned  double  house  used  for  a  curiosity 
shop.  These  abound  in  Salem;  in  fact,  if 
antiques  do  not  represent  a  local  industry, 
as  some  mockers  hint,  they  are  no  incon- 
siderable article  of  the  city's  trade. 

A  short  distance  down  Mall  Street,  No.  14, 
on  the  right,  is  a  comfortable  hip-roofed 
house  standing  with  end  to  the  street,  and 
shaded  by  trees  in  its  pleasant  garden. 
This  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  houses 
in  Salem,  for  in  it  was  written  "The  Scar- 
let Letter,"  the  masterpiece  by  which  the 
world  best  knows,  and  will  longest  remem- 
ber Hawthorne.  He  moved  here  in  1847, 
and  his  study  was  the  front  room  in  the  third 
story. 

When  he  lost  his  office  in  the  customs,  "  it 
was  to  this  house  he  went  home  to  tell  the 
serious  news  to  his  wife.  It  was  here,  upon 
learning  it,  that  she  said,  '  Very  well !  now 
you  can  write  your  romance ; '  and  it  was 


128 


The  Puritan  Coast. 


here  that  his  prudent  wife  at  the  same  time, 
and  in  answer  to  Hawthorne's  query  as  to 
how  they  should  live  meanwhile,  opened  the 
bureau-drawer  and  showed  him  the  gold  she 


House  in  which  "  The  Scarlet  Letter  "  was  written. 

had  saved  from  the  portion  of  his  salary 
which,  from  time  to  time,  he  had  placed  in 
her  hands.  .  .  .  Here  Fields  found  Haw- 
thorne, despondent  and  hovering  near  the 
stove,  and  had  the  interesting  conversation 


Salem.  129 

with  him  given  in  Fields'  '  Yesterdays  with 
Authors.' " 

Brown  Street  issues  from  Washington 
Square,  West,  and  on  the  corner  of  it  and 
St.  Peter's  Street  is  St.  Peter's  church.  It 
is  a  pleasant  ivy-clad,  stone  edifice  with  a 
square  tower,  rising  between  two  tiny  church- 
yards. In  the  one  on  the  right,  close  by  the 
fence,  is  the  grave  of  Hawthorne's  ghostly 
visitor:  "Jonathan  Pue,  Esq.,  Late  surveyor 
and  searcher  of  his  magestie's  customs  in 
Salem,  New  England." 

The  church  is  modern,  having  been  built 
in  1833.  Within  is  a  tablet  "In  memory  of 
John  Brown,  to  whose  intrepidity  in  the 
Cause  of  Religious  Freedom,  this  the  first 
Episcopal  Society  gathered  in  N.  E.,  under 
God,  owed  its  establishment  in  1629,  and  to 
Philip  English  who  gave  the  land."  This 
last  gentleman  was  one  of  the  accused  in  the 
Witchcraft  Delusion.  He  and  his  wife  were 
both  denounced,  and  only  escaped  death  by 
fleeing  to  New  York  from  Boston  jail,  with 
the  connivance  of  Governor  Sir  William 
9 


130  The  Puritan  Coast. 

Phips,  and  especially  aided  by  the  Rever- 
end Joshua  Moody.  After  the  town's  mad- 
ness had  passed  away,  Mr.  English  and  his 
wife  returned  to  Salem,  where  Mrs.  English 
died  from  the  effects  of  the  cruel  treatment 
she  had  received.  It  is  a  satisfaction  to  learn 
that  Mr.  Moody  "was  commended  by  all 
discerning  men ;  "  but  nevertheless  so  greatly 
was  he  persecuted  by  the  angry  and  resent- 
ful multitude,  that  he  returned  to  his  old 
charge  at  Portsmouth,  N.  H. 

Farther  down  St.  Peter's  Street  is  a  very 
old  house,  built  in  1684  by  John  Ward, 
sometimes  incorrectly  called  the  Waller 
house. 

Church  Street  is  almost  a  continuation  of 
Brown  Street,  and  leads  to  Washington 
Street,  where  stood  the  court-house  in  which 
the  witchcraft  trials  were  held.  On  a  bronze 
tablet,  near  the  corner  of  Lynde  Street,  are 
set  forth  the  main  facts  of  that  unhappy  delu- 
sion. The  hotel  on  this  street  occupies  a 
very  old  mansion  with  a  quaintly-decorated 
cupola,  which  may  be  visited. 


Salem.  131 

Near  the  present  centre  of  Washington 
Street,  the  Town  House  Square  of  to-day, 
stood  the  town  pump  celebrated  by  Haw- 
thorne. The  well  dried  up  after  the  railway 
tunnel  was  built. 

The  oldest  house  in  Salem  or  vicinity  is 
the  "  Old  Witch  House,"  once  owned  by 
Roger  Williams ;  it  is  No.  310  Essex  Street, 
at  the  corner  of  North  Street.  Though 
changed  a  great  deal,  some  parts  of  it 
remain  as  they  were,  including  the  old 
chimney  in  the  rear  of  the  drug-store.  The 
truth  is,  that  it  has  been  connected  with  the 
witchcraft  delusion  by  tradition  only.  How- 
ever, if  one  wishes  to  see  a  house  whose 
connection  with  that  gruesome  time  is  un- 
doubted, let  him  examine  the  house  No.  315 
Essex  Street,  which  is  little  changed,  and 
was  the  home  of  the  dyer,  Shattuck,  whose 
child  was  said  to  have  been  bewitched  by 
Bridget  Bishop. 

In  this  direction  is  Gallows'  Hill,  but  there 
is  really  nothing  to  see  there.  I  went  there 
years  ago,  to  make  a  drawing  for  Longfellow's 


132  The  Puritan  Coast. 

"  New  England  Tragedies,"  and  I  confess 
that  I  have  never  gone  again.  The  witch- 
craft tragedy  is  an  unpleasant  subject,  when- 
ever it  is  approached  with  the  seriousness  it 
must  deserve  from  any  but  the  most  thought- 
less ;  but,  except  to  the  historian  or  philoso- 
pher, it  must  claim  only  a  morbid  interest. 
It  is  better  to  think  of  Salem's  commercial 
achievements,  her  patriotism  and  philan- 
thropy, and  to  visit  her  museums,  her  libra- 
ries and  schools. 


HBH 


BEVERLY  is  reached  by  returning  to  Wash- 
ington Square,  North,  and  following  Winter 
and  Bridge  streets  to  Essex  Bridge.  A 
refreshing  breeze  generally  draws  up  the 
river  from  the  sea,  flecks  the  bay  with  white, 
and  sings  mournfully  a  long  monotony  in  the 
wires  overhead.  Though  the  view  on  both 
sides  is  fine,  that  up  the  river  is  marred  by 
the  railway  causeway.  Across  the  bay,  "  The 
Willows"  is  cheerful  with  flags  and  music, 
and  the  old  fort  peaceful  in  decay.  In  the 


134  The  Puritan  Coast. 

harbor  are  mingled  picturesquely  sail-boats 
and  yachts,  their  slender  spars  and  snowy 
canvas  contrasted  with  the  dingy  sails  of 
rusty  coasters  and  grimy,  clumsy  coal-barges. 

Just  across  the  bridge,  Cabot  Street  leads 
to  Front  Street,  and  at  No.  22  of  the  latter 
is  an  old  house,  once  used  as  a  church,  in 
which  in  1810  was  established  the  first  Sun- 
day-school in  America.  Bartlett  and  Stone 
Streets  then  lead  to  Lothrop  Street,  a  famous 
drive,  overlooking  the  sea.  Only  a  little  way 
down  the  latter  is  a  pleasant  resting-place 
in  a  little  summer-house ;  it  stands  at  the 
head  of  three  flights  of  steps  descending  to 
the  beach.  Shady  and  cool,  it  commands  a 
broad  view  of  Beverly  Cove  and  the  mouth 
of  Salem  Harbor. 

When  I  last  rested  here,  an  old  man  was 
sitting  contentedly  on  one  of  the  benches. 
He  told  me  that  he  sailed  into  Beverly  Cove 
for  the  first  time  when  he  was  fourteen  years 
old,  in  a  coaster  from  Maine.  "And,"  he 


Beverly. 


135 


added,  "that  was  seventy-nine  years  ago." 
He  liked,  so  he  said,  to  come  here  and  watch 
the  water  and  the  vessels,  for,  having  always 
followed  the  sea,  he  was  lonesome  and  uneasy 


Beverly  Cove. 


when  away  from  it.  He  named  the  islands 
to  me,  starting  from  the  left  over  Wood- 
bury 's  Point.  First,  came  Great  and  Little 
Misery,  but  these  seemed  almost  a  part  of 


136  The   Puritan  Coast. 

the  mainland;  then  Baker's,  with  its  twin 
lights;  and  nearer,  Great  Haste  and  Coney, 
islets  both ;  and  farther  off,  between  them, 
Eagle  Island,  on  which  fat  gooseberries  used 
to  grow ;  and  last,  over  against  Salem  Neck, 
Lowell's  Island,  with  its  institution.  I 
asked  him  whether,  in  his  time,  these  islands 
had  ever  been  wooded.  He  answered  that 
they  were  bare  when  he  first  saw  them  (1817), 
and  that  in  his  boyhood,  old  men,  as  old  as 
he  was  now,  could  not  remember  having  ever 
seen  any  trees  upon  them. 

So  the  islands  must  have  been  cleared  a 
long  time  ago.  Wooded  they  were,  for  the 
Rev.  Francis  Higginson  wrote  in  his  journal 
in  June,  1629:— 

"  Monday,  apth,  as  we  passed  along  to  Naim- 
keake  [/.  <?.,  Salem]  it  was  wonderful  to  behold  so 
many  islands  replenished  with  thicke  wood  and 
high  trees,  and  many  fayere  green  pastures." 

In  the  cove,  many  coasters  were  anchored. 
The  old  sailor  said  that  most  of  them  had 
been  there  several  days,  that  they  expected 


Beverly.  137 

the  equinoctial,  and  were  therefore  afraid  to 
trust  themselves  off  a  lee  shore,  and  though 
in  their  present  anchorage  they  were  exposed 
to  the  winds,  they  would  ride  in  safety 
there,  for  the  reefs  and  islands  broke  all  the 
force  of  the  seas.  So  the  rocks  shelter  as 
well  as  destroy. 

He  also  told  me  that  he  would  rather  be 
cast  away  on  rocks  than  on  sand ;  and  he 
instanced  two  wrecks, — one  at  Gloucester, 
where  a  vessel  had  come  on  the  rocks,  and 
the  crew  had  crawled  ashore,  over  the  bow- 
sprit ;  the  other  at  Swampscott,  where  "  every 
soul,  including  a  cat  and  dog,"  just  walked 
out  on  the  jibboom,  and  dropped  right  down 
into  the  road.  When  a  vessel  goes  on  the 
sands,  however,  almost  every  one  is  surely 
lost. 

There  is  a  long  coast  from  here  to  some 
fine  willows  and  a  fountain,  by  a  lane  lead- 
ing to  the  other  end  of  the  beach,  beyond 
which  the  first  turn  to  the  right  leads  to 
Ober  Street,  and  thence  by  Neptune  and 


133 


The  Puritan  Coast. 


Bay  View  streets,  to  Paul's  Head.  These 
streets  are  much  like  English  lanes,  and  for 
one  in  love  with  beauty  it  is  no  place  to 
hurry. 

Instead  of   disfiguring   the   landscape,  as 
they  too  often  do,  the  houses  add  to  it  a  pic- 


PauVs  Head. 


turesque  feature,  standing  as  they  do  amid 
velvety  lawns  and  banks  of  flowers,  and  sep- 
arated from  the  road  by  vine-clad  walls  or 
beautiful  shrubs  and  hedges.  Under  green 
oaks  and  maples  their  gardens  overhang  the 
sea  in  unexpected  variety. 


Beverly.  1 39 

White  with  the  dazzling  white  which  only 
whitewash  can  give,  and  beside  which  all 
other  whites  are  gray,  the  square  prim  light- 
house tower  enhances  and  deepens  the  blue 
of  sky  and  bay.  The  keeper's  home  is  a 
chalet-like  cottage,  from  whose  walls  slope 
the  grassy  banks,  pretty  with  flowers,  down 
to  the  rocky  shore.  What  a  contrast  is  the 
berth  here  to  one  in  the  wave-shaken  tower 
on  Minot's  Ledge,  or  in  an  ever-tossing 
lightship  over  some  lonely  shoals ! 

Before  returning  to  the  road,  it  is  interest- 
ing to  look  up  the  old  breastworks  back  of 
the  lighthouse;  for  this  point  was  fortified 
during  the  Revolution,  and  the  esplanade 
just  beyond  the  light,  and  now  divided 
amongst  fine  estates,  was,  during  the  strug- 
gle with  the  mother  country,  a  great  training 
ground  and  camp  for  the  colonists. 

The  first  turn  to  the  right,  after  the  road 
has  been  retraced  a  little,  leads  by  Neptune 
Street  to  Hale  Street.  It  is  good  wheeling, 


140  The  Puritan  Coast. 

but  out  of  sight  of  the  sea.  However,  after 
turning  to  the  right,  by  the  blacksmith-shop 
at  Chapman's  Corner,  the  street  suddenly 
enters  a  stretch  of  woodland  exquisitely 
beautiful. 

At  times  the  road  is  so  shadowed  by  the 
splendid  overhanging  trees  that  only  here 
and  there  is  it  flecked  by  narrow  shafts  of 
sunshine  which  have  struggled  through  the 
leafy  screen.  Paths  and  driveways  lead, 
discreetly  and  furtively,  to  foliage-hidden 
houses.  The  trees  rise  high  above  tumbled 
rocks  and  bowlders.  From  the  covert  of 
ferns  and  sombre  depths  of  shade,  they  lift 
their  trunks  and  branches  to  the  sun.  This 
is  the  edge  of  the  famous  Witch  Woods, 
thus  named  because  it  is  so  hard  to  find 
one's  way  that  they  were  believed  to  be 
bewitched. 

The  early  settlers  held  these  woods  in 
great  fear,  believing  them  infested  by  lions 
at  least,  if  not  worse !  The  author  of  "  New 
England's  Prospect,"  though  he  admits  that 
he  himself  had  never  seen  any  lions,  de- 


Beverly.  141 

clares,  quaintly,  that  "  Some  likewise,  being 
lost  in  the  woods,  have  heard  such  terrible 
roarings,  as  have  made  them  much  aghast ; 
which  must  be  either  devils  or  lions;  there 
being  no  other  creatures  which  use  to  roar, 
saving  bears,  which  have  not  such  a  terrible 
kind  of  roaring."  But  to-day,  the  edge  of 
the  forest  seems  more  like  a  delightful  park 
than  the  lair  of  savage  beasts,  clawed  or 
cloven  of  foot,  and,  so  cleverly  has  it  all 
been  arranged,  that  its  sylvan  character  is 
not  lost,  nor  is  the  presence  of  the  near 
estates  too  keenly  felt. 

As  I  caught,  now  and  then,  a  glimpse  of 
some  fine  house,  or  passed  the  rolling  car- 
riages and  other  evidences  of  Beverly's 
wealth,  I  recalled  with  amusement  the  peti- 
tion to  the  General  Court,  in  1671,  of  the 
venerable  Roger  Conant,  "who  hath  bin  a 
planter  in  New  England  fortie  yeers  and 
upwards,"  praying  that  the  name  be  changed 
from  Beverly  to  that  of  his  native  town, 
Budleigh,  and  giving  as  his  first  and  prin- 


142  The  Puritan  Coast 

cipal  reason  "the  great  dislike  and  discon- 
tent of  many  of  our  people  for  this  name  of 
Beverly,  because  (we  being  a  small  place)  it 
hath  caused  on  us  a  constant  nickname  of 
Beggarly !  "  The  petition  was  not  granted, 
and  time  has  taken  away  Roger  Conant's 
cause  of  complaint. 

A  regret  will  come,  sometimes,  that  one  is 
so  shut  off  from  the  shore ;  and  one  reverts 
mentally  to  the  open  freedom  of  the  cliff  at 
Newport ;  but  the  road  soon  winds  back,  or 
the  shore  curves  in,  and  suddenly  there  rises 
the  sea's  edge ;  the  bay  and  islands  follow. 
It  is  the  famous  view  over  Mingo  Beach. 

The  first  sight  of  any  celebrated  view  is 
apt  to  be  disappointing.  ^Either  zest  is 
dulled  and  pleasure  discounted  by  anticipa- 
tion, or  overpraise  has  raised  too  great  an 
expectancy.  This  view  at  Mingo  Beach,  for 
example,  has  been  often  compared  to  that  of 
the  Bay  of  Naples ;  yet  all  they  have  in 
common  is  that  beauty  of  sky  and  water  to 


Beverly. 

be   expected    in   a   common    latitude.     The 
shores  themselves  have  no  resemblance. 


Mingo  Beach. 


Nothing  could  be  more  unlike  the  steep 
volcanic  slopes  of  Naples, 

"  Where  the  waves  and  mountains  meet," 

than  these  low,  wooded  shores.       Lowell's 
and    Baker's   islands  do  not  remind  one  of 


144  The  Puritan  Coast. 

Ischia  and  Capri,  whose  craggy  precipices 
tower  over  two  thousand  feet  above  the  sea. 
Think,  too,  of  Monte  Sant'  Angelo,  rising 
abruptly  from  Castelmare,  nearly  a  mile, 
while,  above  buried  Herculaneum  and  Pom- 
peii, Vesuvius  hangs  her  white  wreath  of 
smoke,  and  Naples  rears  her  hills,  topped  by 
mediaeval  castles.  Through  the  burning 
mountain,  Nature  speaks  of  past  destruction, 
and  ever  menaces  the  future.  The  frowning 
castles  and  towers  recite  man's  long  struggle 
against  oppression  and  cruelty,  kingcraft  and 
priestcraft,  his  fight  for  liberty,  security,  and 
happiness.  And  the  stern  spirit  of  all  this 
is  shared  by  our  shores  as  well  as  the  com- 
mon beauty.  If  the  volcano  is  more  terrible, 
it  is  no  fiercer  than  the  treacherous  sea, 
which  yearly  exacts  its  tribute  of  death. 
Even  the  name  of  the  beach  here  perpetuates 
the  memory  of  slavery.1  Salem,  like  Naples, 
has  been  scourged  by  cruelty  and  supersti- 
tion. The  people  must  ever  struggle  against 

1  It  is  named  after  a  negro  slave  of   Beverly,   Robin 
Mingo. 


Beverly.  145 

greed  and  oppression,  which  only  change 
their  form,  not  their  nature.  But  outwardly 
the  shore  has  an  appearance,  almost  bour- 
geois, of  restful  peace,  comfort,  and 
prosperity. 

Comparisons  should  be  carefully  made,  for 
they  will  arise ;  they  are  our  only  measures. 
As  I  leaned  over  the  wall  here,  at  the  close 
of  a  calm  afternoon,  the  blue  sea  barely 
wrinkled  by  the  afternoon  breeze,  reminded 
me  of  the  Mediterranean.  Surely,  it  was 
quite  as  blue;  for  our  idea  of  that  vaunted 
sea  abroad  has  come  to  us  through  the  praises 
in  English  prose  and  verse.  Heavenly  blue 
it  must  seem  to  British  eyes,  used  to  the 
gray  and  yellow  seas  of  the  Channel,  or 
the  cold  North  Sea,  over  which  "Go  rolling 
the  storm-clouds,  the  formless,  dark,  gray 
daughters  of  the  air." 

But  one  sea  must  not  be  lauded  at  the  ex- 
pense of  another.  Each  has  its  particular 
individual  beauty.  And  this  same  gray 
North  Sea  I  have  known  the  quintessence  of 
sunlight.  Once,  from  a  steamer's  deck,  I 


146  The  Puritan  Coast. 

had  been  watching  the  coast  of  Holland,  a 
mother-of-pearl  horizon  over  the  white- 
capped  sea,  when  suddenly  the  ship  slowed 
down  and  I  crossed  to  the  port  side.  Over 
the  bow  was  Flushing,  its  walls  drenched  and 
belabored  by  the  dashing  surf,  that  broke 
into  great  sheets  of  spray  and  went  flying 
over  the  walls  into  the  streets  and  windows, 
and  onto  the  very  roofs.  The  sun  flashed 
on  the  waves  in  almost  painful  brilliancy, 
and  the  sea  was  all  yellow  and  white;  and 
over  this  heaving  yellow  sea  came  a  pilot- 
boat,  yellow  too,  with  a  tawny  sail,  and 
manned  by  a  crew  all  in  yellow  oilskins 
(except  one  harmoniously  green),  and  all 
drenched  and  flashing  in  the  day  beams  and 
sparkling  foam, — a  glorious  symphony  in 
yellow,  and  the  keenest  expression  of  sun- 
light I  have  ever  seen. 

As  for  blue  and  green,  the  Mediterranean 
and  our  own  sea  are  but  as  ashes,  when  com- 
pared to  the  azure  and  emerald  glowing  over 
the  coral  sands  and  ledges  of  Bermuda, 
"  By  bays,  the  peacock's  neck  in  hue." 


Beverly.  147 

Our  own  sea,  like  the  Mediterranean  or 
any  other,  follows  the  changes  of  the  sky, 
and  so  it  runs  the  subtle  scale  of  cloudy 
grays,  the  rosy,  silvery  morning  tints,  all  the 
yellows  and  reds  of  sunset,  and  the  sombre 
tones  of  night.  Still  it  is  often  an  intense 
blue,  deepened  to  purple  over  sunken  reefs, 
and  enhanced  by  emerald  pools  over  patches 
of  sand. 

Yes,  as  I  said,  it  was  very  blue  that  calm 
afternoon.  On  the  horizon  rested  a  low  bank 
of  clouds,  like  distant  fog,  and  above  it,  the 
sky  melted  through  changing  opalescent 
color  into  deep  azure.  South  of  the  zenith, 
hung  the  moon,  nearly  full,  but  pale  and 
faint.  The  incoming  yachts  caught  the  yel- 
lowing rays  of  the  sun,  and  slowly  made  the 
harbor.  Only  the  sound  of  faintly  splashing 
water  rose  from  the  warm-toned  rocks  below ; 
no  sound  of  voices  broke  the  decorous  quiet 
of  the  road.  Occasionally,  came  the  rumble 
of  carriages,  the  impact  of  hoofs,  or  the  soft 
purr  of  a  coasting  wheel.  As  the  sun  dropped 
lower,  all  the  east  glowed  with  reflected 


148 


The  Puritan  Coast. 


glory,  —  sea,  shore,  and  sky  echoed  the  west ; 
Color  and    Light,  the  two    great  magicians, 


Catholic  Church. 


transmuted  our  familiar  coast  and  bay  into 
a  slowly  fading  loveliness,  as  night  came  on. 


Beverly. 


149 


One  turns  away  regretfully  from  such 
beauty.  Farther  on,  the  way  is  less  interest- 
ing, and  at  Pride's  crosses  the  railway,  and 
again  at  Beverly  Farms,  three-quarters  of  a 


' '  Beverly-by-the-  Depot. " 


mile  beyond.  On  the  way  is  Emerson's  pretty 
Catholic  church  by  vine-hung  cottages,  which 
together  make  a  picturesque  note.  Just  be- 
fore reaching  the  Farms'  station,  last  on  the 
right,  is  the  house  once  occupied  by  Oliver 


150  The  Puritan  Coast. 

Wendell  Holmes,  and  from  which  he  dated 
his  letters,  "  Beverly-by-the-Depot,"  in  emu- 
lation of  Manchester-by-the-Sea.  Nearly  op- 
posite, in  the  last  house  on  the  left,  square 
and  old-fashioned,  once  lived  Lucy  Larcom. 
We  have  her  own  testimony  that  it  was  on 
this  road  between  Marblehead  and  Beverly 
that  she  used  to  see,  sitting  wistfully  at  the 
window,  "  Hannah,  binding  shoes."  Not 
quite  here,  however,  for  it  must  have  been 
somewhere  in  sight  of  the  sea  — 

"  May  is  passing, — 
Mid  the  apple-boughs  a  pigeon  coos. 

Hannah  shudders, 

For  the  wild  sou'wester  mischief  brews. 
Round  the  rocks  of  Marblehead, 
Outward  bound,  a  schooner  sped  : 

Silent,  lonesome, 
Hannah  's  at  the  window  binding  shoes. 

"  'T  is  November : 
Now  no  tear  her  wasted  cheek  bedews. 

From  Newfoundland 
Not  a  sail  returning  will  she  lose  ; 
Whispering  hoarsely,  '  Fishermen, 
Have  you,  have  you  heard  of  Ben  ?  ' 

Old  with  watching, 
Hannah's  at  the  window  binding  shoes. 


Beverly.  151 

"  Twenty  winters 
Bleach  and  tear  the  rugged  shore  she  views ; 

Twenty  seasons ;  — 
Never  one  has  brought  her  any  news  ! 
Still  her  dim  eyes  silently 
Chase  the  white  sails  o'er  the-sea. 

Hopeless,  faithful, 
Hannah  's  at  the  window  binding  shoes." 

After  crossing  the  railway,  the  road  comes 
quickly  to  the  head  of  West  Beach.     At  low 


Ifest  Beach. 


water,  its  sands  offer  a  long  stretch  of  good 
wheeling,  and,  by  going  a  little  back  towards 
Beverly,  a  good  view  may  be  had  of  the 
picturesque  coast  and  islands  of  Manchester. 


ter 


BEYOND  West  Beach,  the  road  crosses  the 
railway  again,  and  leaves  the  sea  for  the 
woods.  Black  Cove  and  Tuck's  Point  may 
be  visited  by  taking  the  first  turn  to  the 
right.  At  Tuck's  Point  is  the  yacht  club- 
house and  a  fine  public  pier  jutting  out  from 
a  little  park.  A  maze  of  inlets  and  islands 
seams  the  harbor  from  the  pier's  end.  It  is 
worth  the  detour,  both  for  the  view  of  the 
cove  and  harbor,  and  the  pleasant*'  ride 
through  the  lanes  coming  and  going. 

The  way  back  is  to  the  right  by  Harbor 
Street,  over  the  railway  bridge,  and  again  to 


Manchester. 


153 


the    right,  when    Bridge    Street   is    reached. 
From  this  corner    it  is  only  half  a  mile  to 


Tuck's  Point, 


Manchester,  once  an  ancient  fishing-port 
and  a  part  of  Salem,  now  a  quiet,  typical 
New  England  village. 


154  The  Puritan  Coast. 

Church,  school-house,  town  hall,  and  inn 
are  all  gathered  about  the  village  green,  in 
the  middle  of  which  is  a  fine  granite  fountain. 
There  are  not  many  ancient  houses ;  but  the 
general  appearance  is  one  of  peaceful  and 
prosperous  age.  The  meeting-house  in  the 
square  was  built  in  1809,  and  has  a  quaint 
and  very  graceful  belfry  and  steeple.  The 
weathercock  was  provided  by  the  town  in 
1754,  at  a  cost  of  £7  ios.  %d.,  for  the  old 
church  which  the  present  structure  super- 
seded. 

The  proposal  to  heat  this  church  on  Sun- 
days was  firmly  opposed  by  many  of  the  con- 
gregation, says  the  local  historian.  In  the 
end,  the  party  of  progress  was  too  strong  for 
the  remonstrants,  and  it  was  announced 
from  the  pulpit  one  Sunday,  that  thereafter 
the  church  would  be  heated  on  the  Lord's 
Day.  During  worship  on  the  next  Sabbath, 
many  were  overcome  by  the  heat,  several 
women  fainted,  and  others  had  to  leave  the 
church  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air.  It  is  fair 
to  presume  that  these  afflicted  ones  were  of 


Manchester. 


155 


the  opposition,  for  after  service  it  was  dis- 
covered that,  owing  to  a  defect  in  the  heater, 
no  fire  had  been  started  that  morning. 


Manchester  Public  Library  and  Church. 

Around  the  corner,  on  Union 
Street,  is  the  Memorial  Public 

o 

Library  given  to  the  town  by 
the  Hon.  T.  Jefferson  Coolidge.  It  contains 
interesting  old  wood-carvings  and  memorial 


156 


The  Puritan  Coast. 


tablets.  In  addition  to  the  Memorial  hall 
and  library,  it  has  a  hall  for  the  use  of  the 
G.  A.  R. 

The  next   street  to  the  right  crosses  the 


Manchester  Harbor. 


railway,  passes  the  head  of  the  harbor,  and 
mounts  the  hill  to  Masconomo  Road,  hard 
by  the  great  hotel.  The  red  and  gambrel- 
roofed  house,  high  upon  Thunderbolt  Rock, 
at  the  right  was  the 
summer  home  of  James 
T  Fields. 

One  should  now  turn 
to  the  right,  pass  the 
Unitarian  chapel,  and 
keep  on  down  the  quiet  English-like  lane 
by  the  pretty  Episcopal  church  with  its 


Manchester. 


159 


vines  and  picturesque  lich-gate,  to  the  shore 
of  Lobster  Cove. 

This  little  nook,  sheltered  by  rocky  points, 
is  overlooked  by  chalet  and  castle-like  houses 
-  in  admirable  harmony  with  their  surround- 
ings. It  is  one  of  the  prettiest  spots  on  the 
coast.  The  narrow  lane  separates  the  beach 
from  a  gem-like 
pond.  On  one  side 
is  the  kelp-strewn, 
rock -but  tressed 
beach  and  the  sea, 
spa  rk  ling  like 
spangled  cobalt 
under  the  sun. 

The  tide  softly  laps  the  flat  stones.  A  hun- 
dred feet  distant  from  its  brine  is  the  fresh 
water  of  the  little  pond,  fringed  with  grass, 
and  dotted  with  lily-pads  and  arrow-heads. 
Under  the  autumn  breeze  its  rippled  surface 
takes  on  a  blue  deeper  than  ultramarine, 
and  is  all  ringed  about  by  an  indescribable 
tangle  of  reddening  and  bronzing  shrubs  and 
vines. 


160  The  Puritan  Coast. 

Gnarled  trees  and  jagged  rocks  overhang 
the  shady  lane,  where  it  climbs  the  hill  over 
Gale's  Point.  Here  is  a  lesson  in  landscape- 
gardening,  for  the  noble  estates  are  an  added 
charm  to  the  natural  beauty.  Over  the  lawn 
open  glimpses  of  the  sea,  framed  by  trees 
and  vines. 

From  a  little  summer-house  on  the  hill's 
top,  there  is  an  extended  view  of  great 
charm.  Over  the  deep  azure  of  the  bay, 
beyond  faint  Nahant,  rise  the  pearly  blue 
hills  of  Milton;  nearer,  lies  Marblehead, 
"  Its  porphyry  promontories  sleeping  in  the 
sun;"  then  Salem,  between  the  white  sails 
in  Beverly  Cove  and  the  purple  ridges  of 
Lynn  Woods;  then  the  shimmering  sands 
of  West  Beach  and  the  rocky  wooded  shore, 
seen  between  the  odd-shaped  roofs,  as  it 
swings  into  the  harbor,  and  on  to  where  the 
little  white  belfry  dominates  all  but  the 
water  tower  on  Powder  House  Hill.  Then 
come  green  rolling  hills,  until,  in  the  east, 
the  ocean  again  raises  its  high  wall  to  the 
sky. 


T/ie  Shady  Lane. 


Manchester. 


163 


It  is  only  a  little  way  back  to  the  Masco- 
nomo  House,  where  Beach  Street  descends 
to  Singing  Beach.  Perhaps  the  first  thing 
to  arrest  the  attention  is  not  the  musical 
accomplishments  of  the  shore,  but  rather  the 
rich  coloring  of  its  sands,  —  for  it  is  quite 


Eagle's  Head  from  Singing  Beach. 

unlike  the  beaches  that  have  been  passed. 
In  texture,  more  like  the  sand  of  Cape  Cod, 
it  is  ruddy  and  beautiful,  —  a  warm  tawny 
pink  in  sunlight,  which  fairly  glows  against 
the  dark  background  of  the  sea.  However, 
its  "singing"  is  really  its  great  attraction. 
Underfoot,  it  seemed  to  me  like  the  crisp 


164  The  Puritan  Coast. 

little  note  that  the  snow  gives  out  in  very 
cold  weather;  and  under  carriage-wheels,  like 
the  long-continued  tone  a  heavy  sleigh 
draws  from  a  frosty  snow-packed  road. 

The  beach  ends  at  the  left  in  a  rocky  prom- 
ontory called  Eagle  Head,  that  is  well 
rusted  by  wind  and  spray,  where  it  shows  a 
bare  beak  to  the  sea;  but  landward  it  is 
feathered  with  straggling  green. 

From  the  beach,  the  way  must  be  retraced 
to  Sea  Street,  which  will  bring  one  to  Sum- 
mer Street,  the  Gloucester  Road.  Just  op- 
posite the  corner  is  an  old  burying-ground 
(1661),  under  a  thick  grove  of  pines  which 
seem  to  rise  from  the  very  graves.  Close 
by  the  sunny  highway,  these  grimly  nurtured 
trees  cast  a  sombre  shadow,  broken  only  by 
the  deeper  sadness  of  their  black  trunks. 
Strangely  uneven  is  the  ground,  and  heavily 
carpeted  with  pine-needles.  It  seems  unsafe 
to  walk  upon, —  yielding  like  some  unnatural 
quicksand.  The  marble  slabs  are  stained 
green  or  smooched  with  black,  and  their 
elders,  the  old  slate  headstones,  lean  de- 


Manchester.  165 

crepitly,  or  seem  sinking  wearily  down  into 
the  graves. 

Just  beyond  the  graveyard,  a  quaint  sign- 
post points  the  way  to  the  grounds  of  the 
Essex  County  Club.  From  here  on,  the  road 
is  uninteresting  until  the  brick-yards  are  past, 
and  one  enters  the  Manchester  Woods. 

On  either  side  of  the  way,  then,  is  roman- 
tic, sylvan  beauty.  From  the  serious  mystery 
of  their  covert,  the  straight  trunks  rise  slen- 
derly through  a  maze  of  leafy  branches.  In 
the  hollow  where  the  brook  trickles  the  soil, 
in  midsummer,  is  thick-hid  by  brakes  and 
ferns;  but  on  the  climbing  bank  at  the  other 
side,  patches  of  warm  brown  and  gray  show 
where  the  rocky  ground  rises  toward  the  sea. 
At  the  left,  the  woods  overhang,  and  the 
tracery  of  trees  and  saplings  is  drawn  against 
tumbled  rocks  and  ledges,  or  broad  dashes  of 
golden-green  where  a  shaft  of  sunshine  has 
pierced  a  group  of  maples.  Rock-strewn,  a 
subtle  harmony  of  gray  and  green,  are  the 
gullies  near  the  top  of  the  hill,  enamelled 


1 66 


The  Puritan  Coast. 


with  silvery  lichens  and  mosses  in  tint  vary- 
ing from  emerald  to  olive  black. 


Black  Beach  and  Manchester  Cove. 

After  emerging  from  these  woods,  Ocean 
Street,  the  first  right,  runs  down  the  hill  to  a 
pretty  little  beach,  and  turning  to  the  left, 
skirts  Manchester  Cove,  on  the  other  side  of 
which  is  Coolidge's  Point.  The  waters  of 


Manchester.  167 

the  cove  invade  the  meadows  at  the  left,  and 
the  flood-tide,  rushing  tumultuously  under 
the  bridge,  brims  to  overflowing  the  winding 
river.  Along  its  placid  curves  the  country  is 
much  like  parts  of  England.  The  hills  are 
embowered  in  softly  rounded  foliage,  and  in 
its  rich  green  shelter  lie  tilled  fields,  fruitful 
orchards,  and  trim  cottages.  On  a  calm 
evening,  with  the  sunset  light  over  the  hills 
and  reflected  in  the  river,  and  all  detail 
blended  and  massed  under  the  gathering 
twilight,  the  sentiment  of  the  scene  is  one  of 
profound  peace. 

The  shingly  beach  and  the  meadow-edge 
are  littered  with  dories,  nets,  anchors,  and 
all  the  picturesque  belongings  of  fishermen. 
Most  of  the  travel  is  on  the  highway,  so  that 
one  generally  has  this  road  almost  to  one's 
self.  As  I  stood  here  one  beautiful  October 
day,  the  smoke  of  autumn  fires  drifted  lazily 
over  the  harvested  fields.  The  goldenrod 
had  lost  its  flaming  yellow,  and  deliciously 
brown  in  tone,  harmonized  wonderfully  well 
with  the  lavender-purple  asters  and  the  straw- 


1 68  The  Puritan  Coast. 

yellow  of  the  grass.  Toward  Magnolia,  the 
purple  rocks  on  the  hills  shouldered  aside 
the  red  and  bronzed  bushes,  sombre  and  rich 
as  antique  rugs.  The  breeze  was  a  little 
chilly,  but  in  warm,  sheltered  spots  a  few 
bees  still  hummed,  and  long-bodied  wasps 
crawled  about  the  path  where  gorgeous 
green  and  golden  flies  sunned  themselves, 
and  buzzed  cheerfully.  All  was  quiet.  Over 
on  the  main  road  an  occasional  wheelman,  or 
a  few  golfers  driving  to  the  links,  were  the 
only  souls  that  shared  with  me  the  freshness 
of  the  morning. 


A  TURN  to  the  right  into  Summer  Street 
again,  and  once  more  to  the  right  into  level 
Raymond  Street,  brings  one  between  willows 
and  meadows  to  Magnolia  Beach,  at  the  head 
of  Kettle  Cove.  Here  the  first  comers  landed, 
it  is  said,  and  settled  Jeffry's  Creek,  rechris- 
tened  Manchester,  in  1645.  The  Gloucester 
line  is  at  the  farther  end  of  the  beach.  The 
name  Magnolia  celebrates  the  beautiful  flow- 
ers found  in  the  swamps  and  deep  woods 
which  lie  to  the  north. 

"  Where  the  Arctic  birch  is  braided  by  the  tropic's 

flowery  vines, 

And  the  white  magnolia  blossoms  star  the  twilight 
of  the  pines  !  " 


170 


The   Puritan  Coast. 


The  beach  is  edged,  after  the  American 
manner,  with  disorderly  rows  of  bathhouses. 
The  settlement  beyond,  with  its  cupolas  and 
turrets,  seems  like  a  seaside  Midway.  To  it 
in  summer  come  seekers  for  rest  and  pleas- 
ure. No  sharers  they  of  the  original  settlers' 


An  Introduction. 


prejudices  against  "  excesse  in  apparrell," 
"  new  strainge  fashions,"  nor  "  superstitious 
ribbons."  It  would  be  an  interesting  meet- 
ing could  Father  Time  present  the  maid  of 
that  time  to  the  modern  woman. 

Where   the   road  climbs    into  the  village, 
and  Hunt  had  his  odd  studio,  "  The  Hulk," 


Magnolia. 


173 


a  stable  has  been  built.  Indeed,  Magnolia 
has  greatly  changed,  and  in  little  more  than 
a  decade.  However,  many  picturesque  old 


Under  the  willows,  Magnolia.. 


bits  still  remain ;  the  old  road  around  the 
point  under  the  willows,  and  by  the  quaint 
fish-houses,  is  as  delightful  as  ever. 


174  The  Puritan  Coast. 

Nowhere  does  our  road  come  nearer  to 
the  enduring  rocks  and  the  clamorous  sea 
than  here.  Even  on  a  calm  day,  the  ear  is 


Summer  House,  Magnolia. 


filled   with   watery    noise ;    the    tide    is    ever 
lifting  and  falling  with  murmurous  cry. 

Just  above  the  surf,  the  path  turns  away 
to  pass  some  fine   houses  and  then  follows 


Magnolia.  1 75 

a  rocky  curve,  beyond  which  are  the  cliffs 
by  Rafe's  Chasm. 

In  summer  this  white  bulwark  of  tumbled 
rocks,  bleaching  under  the  sun,  is  overhung 
by  wide,  deep  masses  of  sweetbrier,  descend- 
ants of  those  same  "  sweet  single  roses  "  that 
cheered  the  Rev.  Francis  Higginson  that 
June  day  in  1629,  when  the  first  English 
ship  sailed  adventurously  amid  the  reefs 
and  ledges  along  this  "  Land  of  Rocks  and 
Roses."  On  the  tenth  of  October,  I  found 
one  of  these  same  sweet  single  roses  bloom- 
ing amid  the  myriad-gleaming  scarlet  hips, 
and  the  bunches  of  asters  and  faded  golden- 
rod. 

At  the  foot  of  the  decline,  a  brawling  brook 
crosses  the  road,  to  sink  its  clamor  in  the 
fuller  cadence  of  the  sea. 

The  road  turns  from  the  shore  and  enters 
the  wood.  Through  the  trees  comes  the 
music  of  that  little  stream :  - 

"The  music  of  a  brook  that  flows 
Murmuring  farewell,  and  yet  doth  never  leave." 


176  The  Puritan  Coast. 

Over  the  hill,  which  is  steep,  and  down  the 
other  side  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  is  a 
little  clearing,  just  where  the  road  stretches 
away  to  a  level,  and  here  to  the  right  is  the 
path  to  Rafe's  Chasm. 

As  I  walked  this  path,  that  October  day, 
the  sun  shot  its  warmth  through  the  boughs 
of  the  pitch-pines  and  set  free  their  balsamic 
odor.  Chickadees  were  calling,  and  other 
little  birds  hopped  and  flitted  about  in  the 
branches,  too  busy  to  notice  me,  though  I 
stood  within  a  yard  of  their  work-ground. 
Bluejays  were  screaming,  and  from  the  dis- 
tance came  the  cawing  of  crows.  The  boughs 
rustled  a  little  in  the  tender  breeze,  and  the 
birds  fluttered  gently.  Suddenly  came  the 
soft,  low  intermittent  pealing  of  a  bell: 

"  O  father!  I  hear  the  church  bells  ring; 
Oh  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 

Muffled  at  times,  and  not  quite  like  a 
church-bell,  it  was  the  bell-buoy  off  the  Reef 
of  Norman's  Woe.  Beyond  the  grove  the 


'  A  nd  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter, 
To  bear  him  company." 


Magnolia.  1 79 

path  is  very  rough,  bordered  with  bayberry 
and  ivy,  and  winds  among  the  sharp  spurs 
and  grass-tufted  chinks  of  the  rocks,  directly 
to  Rafe's  Chasm. 

Here  the  rock  is  stripped  bare,  and  rises 
bleached  gray  white  on  one  side  but  ruddy 
on  the  other.  An  iron  cross  set  here  in  the 
cliff  is  in  memory  of  Martha  Marion,  a 
young  lady  who  was  swept  away  by  a  roller 
and  drowned. 

In  the  deep  chasm,  the  restless  sea  roars 
and  gurgles,  or  booms  hollowly,  cadenced  by 
the  sharp  swash  of  the  spray.  The  surf  an- 
swers the  dismal  wail  of  the  whistling  buoy 
at  the  harbor's  mouth.  Indeed,  the  place  is 
"  full  of  noises/'  like  Prospero's  Isle.  Across 
the  bay  is  Eastern  Point  and  its  Light;  to 
the  left,  Norman's  Woe,  peacefully  fringed 
with  white;  and  beyond,  stretching  along 
the  harbor,  the  roofs  and  steeples  of  Glou- 
cester, behind  the  white  sails  of  its  fleet. 

When  one  returns  to  the  road  and  goes 
on  toward  Gloucester,  the  sea  seems  far 


i8o 


The  Puritan  Coast. 


away ;  but  any  one  of  the  right-hand  paths 
soon  brings  it  to  view.  It  is  all  coast  or 
climb  along  the  shady  road,  under  the  wind- 
music  in  the  tree-tops.  Norman  Road,  the 
way  is  called  at  the  Magnolia  end,  and  Hes- 


Fresh  Water  Cove  Village. 

perus  Avenue,  where  it  joins  the  main  road 
at  Fresh  Water  Village.  Fresh  Water  Cove 
lies  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  where  the  fresh 
water  itself  tumbles  down  the  little  cascade 
under  the  road.  Farther  on,  the  shade  falls 


Magnolia.  183 

from  unusually  fine  trees.  The  road  is  high 
above  the  bay,  and  over  the  water  the  sunlit 
city  is  framed  in  the  dark  embroidery  of 
the  oaks.  The  road  now  descends  until  it 
crosses  the  canal  that  connects  Squam  River 
with  the  harbor  opposite  Ten  Pound  Island 
Light.  It  wholly  loses  its  charm,  and,  a  little 
over  three  miles  from  Magnolia,  loses  itself 
in  the  heart  of  Gloucester. 


TILL  within  a  little  more  than  fifty  years, 
Gloucester  comprised  the  whole  of  Cape  Ann. 
Then  the  farthermost  region  was  set  apart 
and  called  Rockport.  Gloucester  has  always 
reaped  her  harvest  from  the  sea,  and  is  to-day 
the  foremost  fishing-port  of  the  world  ;  while 
Rockport,  though  it  still  sends  a  fleet  to 
the  Banks,  rends  a  part  of  her  living  from 
the  granite  hills  of  the  Cape  itself.  But  the 
quarries  are  a  comparatively  modern  resource. 
Fishing  was  the  first,  and  is  still  the  chief, 


Gloucester  and  Rockport.       185 

industry  of  the  people  of  Cape  Ann.  Indeed, 
the  fisheries  brought  the  first  settlers  to 
our  rocky  coast,  for  the  sterile  Cape  itself 
offered  few  attractions.  Behind  its  rocky 
girdle  a  wild  forest  rose  over  tumbled  bowl- 
ders and  ragged  ledges.  Only  the  slender 
brooks  that  trickled  down  to  the  shore  pierced 
its  dark  mystery;  a  fearful  region  it  was, 
filled,  according  to  the  early  comers,  with 
witches  and  ghosts,  lions  and  devils.  How- 
ever, the  crooked,  barren  headlands  sheltered 
snug  harbors,  and  were  good  places  for  curing 
fish,  so  along  their  shores  rude  fishing  villages 
were  built,  —  the  humble  beginnings  of  to- 
day's prosperity. 

Active  and  busy  are  the  streets  that  have 
replaced  the  rough  paths  of  earlier  days. 
Banks,  churches,  offices,  and  stores  line  their 
length ;  but  even  to  their  most  urban  parts 
comes  the  cool  refreshing  breath  of  the  sea. 
One  is  continually  reminded  of  the  town's 
chief  occupation,  for  the  signs  read  of  ships 
and  their  stores,  of  boats  and  seines,  of  nets 


i86 


The  Puritan  Coast. 


From  the  wharves,  East  Gloucester. 

and    fish,  and  up  the  side-streets,    from  the 

yards  and  wharves,  steal  fine  marine  odors. 

Washington  and  Main  streets  lead  to  East 


Gloucester  and  Rockport.       187 

Main,  the  road  to  East  Gloucester,  with  a 
most  picturesque  waterside.  From  the  store- 
houses and  fish-flakes,  the  wharves  stretch  out 
high  above  the  low  water,  as  if  on  stilts,  or  are 
lapped  deeply  in  the  ample  flood-tide.  The 
fleet  crowds  the  harbor ;  and  through  the  maze 
of  shrouds  and  masts  are  seen  the  towers  and 
steeples  of  the  city.  On  the  steep  bank  that 
shelves  to  the  haven,  under  willows  and  apple- 
trees,  cluster  snug  cottages,  and  about  them 
lie  boats  updrawn  in  the  grasses  and  flowers. 
From  the  sidepath,  one  looks  down  through 
green  boughs  on  schooners'  decks,  on  dry- 
ing seines  and  dangling  purse-nets. 

After  passing  Rocky  Neck  Avenue,  there 
is  a  fine  view  of  the  harbor  and  the  surf 
breaking  at  its  mouth  on  Norman's  Woe  and 
the  cliffs  by  Rafe's  Chasm.  Here  one  enters 
the  land  of  rackets  and  golf  clubs,  summer 
girls,  novels,  and  hammocks,  water-color  kits 
and  white  umbrellas.  Beyond  the  stone  gate- 
house, the  way  swings  around  the  sunny  curve 
of  a  sandy  beach,  then  through  the  shade  of 


1 88 


The   Puritan  Coast. 


rustling  poplars  and  great  willows,  close  by 
Niles  Pond.  Over  its  fresh  water,  the  ocean 
stretches,  a  deeper  blue;  and  the  noise  of 
the  far  off  surf  forms  an  undertone  to  the 


Eastern  Point. 


song  of  birds  and  the  splashing  of  the  pond's 
thin  waves  on  the  mossy  rocks.  All  the  way 
to  Eastern  Point,  the  fields  are  bossed  with 
rocks,  and  gay  with  flowers.  From  the  shrub- 


The  Harbor  from  East  Gloucester. 


Gloucester  and  Rockport.       191 

bery,  comes  the  continual  song  of  birds.  The 
farther  one  goes,  the  louder  becomes  the  un- 
ceasing refrain  of  the  surf,  the  clearer  the  inter- 
mittent peal  of  the  floating  bell,  the  stronger 
the  melancholy  wail  of  the  whistling  buoy. 

Beyond  the  rusty  wall  of  jumbled  rocks,  by 
the  light-house  on  Eastern  Point,  the  outgoing 
fleet,  meeting  the  broad  Atlantic  swell,  tosses 
and  tips  like  the  little  ships  on  old  Dutch 
clocks.  The  afternoon  sun  blazes  on  the 
harbor;  the  sails  of  the  tacking  schooners 
alternate  in  sunlight  or  shadow  ;  and  the  hills 
at  Magnolia  gleam  softly  green,  or  sink  darkly 
purple,  into  the  fleeting  cloud-shadows.  Bay- 
berry  and  wild  roses  perfume  the  sea-air. 

My  last  visit  here  was  preceded  by  a  long 
spell  of  foul  weather  ;  and  so,  with  the  promise 
of  fair  winds  and  blue  skies,  many  vessels 
were  beating  out  of  the  harbor,  and  passing 
in  quick  procession  about  the  Point.  The 
offing  was  all  flecked  with  their  sails.  "  Cap- 
tains Courageous,"  and  crews  as  brave,  were 
putting  forth  to  their  perilous  toil  among 


192  The  Puritan  Coast. 

the  fogs  and  tempests  of  the  Banks,  whence 
many  a  ship  has  returned  with  flag  half- 
masted,  for  few  callings  are  so  dangerous. 
Hundreds  of  Gloucester  widows  and  orphans 
mourn  their  lost  ones,  perished  in  those 
treacherous  seas. 

It  may  be  that  the  dangers,  the  sufferings, 
and  the  calamities  of  a  fisherman's  life  in  this 
world  inspired  the  sweet  doctrine  of  an  all- 
forgiving  Mercy  in  the  hereafter  which  found 
such  a  ready  acceptance  on  the  Cape,  for 
the  Universalist  sect  was  established  here  as 
early  as  1770,  and  John  Murray,  its  apostle, 
preached  for  many  years  in  the  old  Univer- 
salist church  at  Gloucester. 

Certainly,  the  adventurous  life  of  the  fisher- 
men was  well  calculated  to  fit  them  for  daring 
naval  deeds;  and  so  we  find  that,  during  the 
Revolution  and  the  War  of  1812,  the  sailors  of 
Gloucester  were  a  scourge  to  the  British. 
Captain  Haraden  alone  wrested  1000  cannon 
from  them  on  the  high  seas.  The  hardy 
industry  of  this  people  is  the  school  of 
heroes. 


Gloucester  and  Rockport.      193 

From  the  light-house  at  Eastern  Point,  the 
road  winds  close  to  the  shore,  and  in  the  dis- 
tance there  soon  glimmer  the  buttresses  of 
Brace's  Rock.  It  seems  to  me  that  this 
should  be  the  very  spot  where  John  Josselyn, 
Gent.,  in  1638,  saw  his  monster,  the  sea-ser- 
pent, "  quoiled  up  on  a  rock  at  Cape  Ann." 
I  can  imagine  his  shaggy  head  reposing  on 
the  great  green-backed  rock  that  first  shoul- 
ders off  the  surges,  and  his  crimson  mottled 
"  quoils"  luxuriously  cooled  by  the  dazzling 
bouquets  of  foam  that  break  on  the  purple 
and  sienna  ramparts  of  his  lair. 

Close  by  the  path,  at  the  head  of  Brace's 
Cove,  Niles  Pond  again  appears,  sparkling 
amid  its  lily  pads  and  sedge,  so  that  you  have 
on  one  side,  the  expanse  of  the  ocean,  break- 
ing rollers,  passing  ships,  and  wheeling  gulls, 
and  on  the  other  side,  dimpling  fresh  water, 
under  the  shade  of  willows,  water-lily  blos- 
soms, swaying-reeds  and  sweet-voiced  land- 
birds.  Farther  on,  from  a  hill,  a  grand  view 
of  the  harbor  is  spread  out,  and  the  road 
13 


194  The  Puritan  Coast. 

leads  us  back  to  the  city.  For  the  shore 
cannot  be  followed  conveniently  all  around  the 
Cape.  I  pushed  my  wheel  through  its  rocky 
pastures,  and  over  its  beaches,  which  last  is 
possible  at  low  water  ;  but  the  better  way  is 
to  start  afresh  from  the  city,  Whittier's  "  Cool 
and  sea-blown  town." 

The  long  country  road  across  the  Cape 
is  known  as  Eastern  Avenue  in  Gloucester, 
but  becomes  Main  Street  in  Rockport.  The 
electric  cars  now  tear  noisily,  and  at  breakneck 
speed,  through  the  lonely  woods  it  traverses. 
To  this  day,  the  interior  of  the  Cape  is  about 
as  wild  and  untamed  as  ever.  It  was  doubt- 
less in  the  shades  and  silence  of  this  forest 
that  the  ghostly  host  was  bred  which 
descended  in  1692  on  the  garrison  of  Cape 
Ann  ;  for  a  part  in  the  troublous  witchcraft 
times  was  not  denied  to  Gloucester,  though 
it  was  happily  neither  sad  nor  cruel. 

It  was,  we  are  told,  in  the  summer  of  the 
year  so  fateful  to  Salem,  that  "  rollicking 
apparitions  dressed,  like  gentlemen,  in  white 
waistcoats  and  breeches,"  kept  the  good 


Ebenezer  Babson. 


Gloucester  and  Rockport.       197 

people  here  "  in  feverish  excitement  and 
alarm,  for  a  whole  fortnight  together."  At 
first,  only  a  couple  of  these  "  rollicking 
apparitions  "  were  discovered  by  one  Ebenezer 
Babson,  a  sturdy  yeoman  of  Cape  Ann ; 
but  their  number  soon  increased,  keeping 
pace  with  the  number  of  the  witnesses  of 
their  evil  pranks.  These  jovial  demons 
disported  themselves  in  a  manner  quite 
rowdyish  and  more  becoming  to  gentlemen 
of  the  eighteenth  century  and  the  mother 
country,  than  to  staid  Puritan  times  and  prim 
New  England.  They  skulked  about  in  the 
bushes,  threw  stones,  beat  on  barns  with 
clubs,  were  insolent  in  some  outlandish  jargon 
(probably  hog-Latin ! ),  and  even  made  one 
or  two  bad  shots  at  the  sturdy  yeoman. 
Indeed,  "  they  acted  more  in  the  spirit  of 
diabolical  revelry,  than  as  if  actuated  by  any 
deadlier  purpose ;  "  and  this  farce  they  kept 
up,  though  much  powder  and  ball  were 
wasted  on  them  by  Babson  and  his  comrades, 
who  were  actually  reinforced  by  a  detachment 
of  sixty  men  from  Ipswich,  led  by  Captain 


198  The  Puritan  Coast. 

Appleton  !  According  to  the  poet  Whittier, 
the  discerning  Captain,  after  firing  a  silver 
button  at  the  merry  gentlemen  with  no  effect, 
declared  them  to  be  no  mortal  foes,  turned 
to  his  Bible,  and  then  lifted  up  his  voice  in 
prayer,  amid  his  kneeling  men. 

"  Ceased  thereat  the  mystic  marching  of  the  spectres 
round  the  wall, 

But  a  sound  abhorred,  unearthly,  smote  the  ears  and 
hearts  of  all, — 

Howls  of  rage  and  shrieks  of  anguish  !  Never  after, 
mortal  man 

Saw  the  ghostly  leaguers  marching  round  the  block- 
house of  Cape  Ann." 

Later  on,  Gloucester  had  a  resident  witch 
also,  one  Margaret  Wesson,  who  was  long  the 
dread  of  the  superstitious  dwellers  on  the 
Cape.  But,  in  1745,  they  were  delivered 
of  her  in  a  strange  and  mysterious  manner. 
At  the  siege  of  Louisburg  by  the  Colonial 
troops,  two  Massachusetts  soldiers,  natives 
of  Gloucester,  were  annoyed  by  the  persist- 
ent and  unusual  actions  of  an  uncanny  crow 
that  hovered  over  them,  cawing  horribly. 


Gloucester  and  Rockport.      201 

One  of  them  thought  that  under  this  black 
disguise  he  recognized  "  Old  Meg,"  as 
Gloucester's  witch  was  called.  So  he  and 
his  comrade  cut  each  a  silver  button  off 
his  uniform,  and  fired  them  at  the  crow. 
"  At  the  first  shot,  they  broke  its  leg  ;  at 
the  second,  it  fell  dead  at  their  feet."  Thus 
are  we  at  once  impressed  by  the  excellence 
of  their  marksmanship,  and  the  munificence  of 
the  Colonial  government  in  the  matter  of 
buttons.  However,  the  strangest  part  of  the 
story  follows.  Home  again,  our  two  soldiers 
learned  that  on  the  precise  day,  hour,  and 
minute  when  they  had  killed  the  suspicious 
crow,  Old  Meg  herself  had  unaccountably 
fallen  of  a  broken  leg,  and  soon  after  died  in 
great  agony.  And,  stranger  still,  upon  ex- 
amining her  wounds,  the  identical  silver 
buttons  were  found  with  which  the  soldiers 
had  loaded  their  guns  under  the  walls  of 
Louisburg.  And  this  story,  as  well  as  the 
one  of  the  Spectre  Leaguers,  was  "  vouched 
for  by  persons  of  character  and  credibility." 


2O2 


The  Puritan  Coast. 


After  coming  out  of  the  woods,  there  is 
a  wide-reaching  view  of  the  ocean  over  the 
tree-tops  and  rocky  pastures ;  then  Main  Street 


The  Main  Street,  Rockport, 


dips  quickly  toward  Sandy  Bay.  The  way 
to  Land's  End  is  around  to  the  right  and 
close  to  the  water.  It  is  a  pleasant  street 
that  winds  by  old  houses  and  wayside  wells 


Rockport. 


Gloucester  and  Rockport.       205 

through  the  heart  of  the  town,  by  the  village 
church,  to  the  little  common  under  its  elms. 
Next,  comes  Mt.  Pleasant  Street,  and  a  good 
climb  past  more  old  houses  with  square  mass- 
ive chimmeys,  and  gardens  bright  with  old- 
fashioned  flowers.  Through  their  orchards 
and  over  their  sloping  fields  is  seen  the 
deep  blue  of  the  sea. 

But  the  way  soon  becomes  a  country 
road ;  over  its  length  rise  the  towers  of  the 
lights  on  Thatcher's  Island.  The  road  is 
at  a  considerable  distance  from  the  water, 
and  the  fields  slope  down  to  Loblolly  Cove. 
A  little  back,  on  the  left,  are  Straitsmouth 
Island  and  light,  and  the  Tri-Salvages  reef 
and  spindle,  tapering  out  to  sea. 

Thatcher's  Island  was  first  named  Thatcher's 
Woe  by  Anthony  Thatcher,  to  commemorate 
the  sad  story  of  his  shipwreck  there  in 
August,  1635.  His  own  family  of  seven,  that 
of  his  cousin  Parson  Avery,  numbering 
eleven,  and  five  others  —  in  all,  twenty-three 
souls  —  set  sail  from  Ipswich,  for  Marblehead, 
to  whose  rough  fisher-folk  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Avery  felt  called  to  preach  the  Go'spel.  All 


206  The  Puritan  Coast. 

went  well  until  the  night  of  August  fourteenth, 
when,  at  ten  o'clock,  their  old  sails  split. 
They  then  resolved  to  cast  anchor  till  morn- 
ing ;  but,  before  daylight,  a  mighty  storm  arose, 
and,  their  cable  slipping  away,  the  pinnace 
was  hurled  by  the  raging  seas  upon  a  rock. 
Nearly  the  whole  ship's  company  were 
swallowed  up,  or  dashed  to  pieces  by  the 
merciless  waves.  Thatcher  and  his  wife  were 
both  saved,  as  if  by  a  miracle.  He  called 
the  desolate  island  upon  which  they  were 
cast  away  Thatcher's  Woe,  after  his  own 
name,  "  and  the  Rock,  Avery,  his  Fall,  to  the 
end  that  their  fall  and  loss,  and  mine  own, 
might  be  had  in  perpetual  remembrance." 
In  the  isle  lieth  buried  the  body  of  his 
cousin's  eldest  daughter,  whom  he  found 
dead  on  the  shore.  Whittier's  poem,  "The 
Swan  Song  of  Parson  Avery,"  is  founded  on 
this  history. 

"  And  still  the  fishers  outbound,  or  scudding  from  the 

squall, 

With  grave  and  reverent  faces,  the  ancient  tale  recall, 
When  they   see   the  white   waves  breaking  on  the 
Rock  of  Avery's  Fall !  " 


Gloucester  and  Rockport.      207 

The  road  continues  to  the  Turk's  Head  Inn, 
at  Land's  End,  which  is  named  for  its  proto- 
type in  Cornwall.  On  the  beach  here,  just 
back  from  Milk  Island,  the  Atlantic  cable 
is  brought  up  out  of  the  sea,  and  is  marked 
by  two  curiously  striped  poles  with  discs. 
Here  the  road  ends.  Beyond,  stretches  the 
length  of  Long  Beach  to  Bass  Rocks. 

Thatcher's,  Straitsmouth,  and  Milk  Islands 
were  called,  by  Capt.  John  Smith,  the  Three 
Turks'  Heads,  in  memory  of  one  of  his 
exploits,  when,  as  a  Christian  champion,  he 
slew  as  many  Turks  in  combat  and  afterwards 
beheaded  them.  To  this  grisly  souvenir,  he 
added  a  pleasanter  one,  by  naming  Cape 
Ann,  Cape  Tragabizanda,  after  a  fair  Moslem 
who  beguiled  the  weary  days  of  his  captivity 
in  Stamboul. 

"  Who,  when  the  chance  of  war  had  bound 
The  Moslem  chain  his  limbs  around, 
Soothed  with  her  smiles  his  hours  of  pain, 
And  fondly  to  her  youthful  slave 
A  dearer  gift  than  freedom  gave." 


IF  in  Rockport,  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  from 
Gloucester,  one  turns  to  the  left,  instead  of 
towards  Land's  End,  the  road  will  take  him 
about  Sandy  Bay,  and  then  above  the  artificial 
harbors  to  which  the  granite  is  brought  from 
the  quarries  of  Pole  and  Pigeon  Hills.  In  its 
descent,  the  rocky  debris  has  crept  outward 
till  it  lies  like  a  petrified  octopus,  with  rigid 
arms  stretched  out  into  the  sea.  One  cannot 
help  wondering  how  the  beauty  of  ledge  and 
bowlder  can  be  transformed  into  such  ugliness. 
The  air  is  filled  with  the  tinkle  of  hammer 
and  chisel,  and  the  testy  puff  of  steam-drills. 
Occasionally,  comes  the  boom  of  an  explo- 
sion, wresting  the  rocks  from  the  hills. 

From  the  road  itself,  one  may  look  down 
into  a  quarry,  with  its  tracks  and  engines, 


Pigeon  Cove  and  Annisquam.     209 

its  sheds  and  steam-drills,  and  its  men,  ant- 
like,  beneath  the  high  derricks.  The  wayside 
houses  are  utilitarian  and  unlovely,  yet  some- 
times not  without  a  lowly  picturesqueness. 

It  is  uphill  and  down  between  the  blue  wall 
of  the  sea  and  the  gray  granite  hills,  to 
Pigeon  Cove  at  the  harbor,  and  then  up  the 
hill  on  the  other  side,  with  houses  of  a 
better  class,  and  many  summer  hotels  and 
boarding  houses. 

At  the  top  of  the  hill,  a  drive  leads  seaward 
along  the  shore  by  Andrew's  Point  and  Hoop 
Pole  Cove,  and  back  to  Granite  Street.  The 
summer  settlement  here  is  called  Ocean  View. 
The  rocky  shore  is  well-wooded,  exposed  to 
the  full  fury  of  the  northeasters ;  and  the  surf 
is  often  magnificent. 

Granite  Street  runs  into  Washington  Street, 
and  over  its  sloping  length,  across  the 
wind-whipped  bay,  shine  the  sands  of  Plum 
Island,  glimmering  in  their  own  heat,  and 
backed  by  the  hills  of  Newbury.  At  the  foot 
of  the  slope  is  Folly  Cove,  lonely  and  grim, 
and  across  it  Folly  Point,  its  strata  defined 


2IO 


The  Puritan  Coast. 


by    sombre    markings,    now    sloping,    now 

vertical,  to  the  white  foam   at  its   foot.     A 

few   fisher-huts    are  ^ 

clustered  at  the  head    ^ 

of  the  cove,  dories  are 

drawn    far   above   the 

reach    of   waves,    and 


Folly  Cove. 

the  fences  are  festooned  with  drying  nets,  in 
all  the  shades  of  brown  and  black.  From 
here,  the  road  climbs  a  little  hill  beside  a 


The  Village  Street." 


Pigeon  Cove  and  Annisquam.     213 

brook  tumbling  down  its  granite  bed.  Where 
the  roads  fork,  the  perspective  of  lower  lane 
is  spaced  by  level  shadows  from  bordering 
willows,  their  trunks  cut  darkly  across  the 
green  meadow.  Beyond  is  Lanesville. 

The  prettier  way,  by  Langsford  Street,  runs 
uphill  by  an  oak  grove  and  under  old  locusts. 
Soon  the  sea  comes  in  sight,  and  on  its  rim, 
over  the  open  fields,  Agamenticus  in  Maine 
rises  blue  and  alone.  Then  the  coast  shows 
faintly  off  Portsmouth,  and  by  Rye  and  Hamp- 
ton to  Salisbury  Beach,  where  the  cottages 
loom  white  on  the  sands ;  and  over  the  end  of 
the  road  is  the  purple  of  Heartbreak  Hill  in 
Ipswich. 

As  I  stood  here,  a  stone  schooner  was 
standing  out  from  Bay  View  in  the  fresh  north- 
west wind.  So  heavily  was  she  laden,  that 
her  deck  was  scarcely  above  water.  She  did 
not  seem  to  list  at  all  under  the  strong  breeze, 
though  all  sail  was  set.  So  deep  was  she, 
that  as  the  seas  struck  her,  they  swept  back 
across  her  deck  from  stem  to  stern.  The 


214  The  Puritan  Coast. 

afternoon  sun  lit  up  her  sails  and  cast  a  long 
shadow  over  the  water  in  her  lee. 

Great  heaps  of  paving-stones  for  the  armor- 
ing of  city  streets  lie  piled  by  the  harbor. 
Along  the  shaded  village  street  of  Lanesville, 
the  houses  cluster,  and  between  them  and 
the  sea  are  great  sloping  granite  promon- 
tories, in  their  hollows  fertile  green-sward  and 
thriving,  though  wind-tossed,  willows.  When 
a  northeast  gale  sweeps  this  coast,  the  tor- 
mented sea,  ridged  and  edged  by  foam,  rushes 
wildly  along  Folly  Point,  breaking  in  white 
fury  against  the  rocks  all  the  way  to 
Lane's  Cove,  then  hurries  on  till  spent  in 
smothered  foam  over  the  tusks  of  Plum 
Cove  Ledge. 

At  Bay  View,  a  deep  inlet  makes  in  almost 
to  the  road ;  beyond  the  village,  on  a  hill,  is 
the  First  Universalist  church  of  Annisquam. 
Square  and  box-like  it  stands,  under  a  spread- 
ing elm,  overlooking  Lobster  Cove.  The 
afternoon  sun  glitters  on  the  shore  and  water 
of  this  deep  cut  in  the  granite  hills.  Fruit- 
trees,  overtopped  by  whispering  pines,  bend 


Annisquam  Church. 


Pigeon  Cove  and  Annisquam.     217 

over  its  edge,  vines  and  grasses  straggle  down 
its  tumbling  walls. 

A  square  old-fashioned  house,  with  great 
central  chimney,  stands  at  the  beginning  of 
the  winding  country  road  to  Annisquam. 
This  is  a  quiet  little  haven,  resting  under  its 
fruit  and  shade  trees,  sheltered  by  granite  hills 
that  rise  steeply  between  it  and  the  sea,  on 
one  side,  and  the  bowlder-strewn  Cape  hills 
on  the  other.  No  matter  how  the  wind  may 
blow  outside,  the  little  cove  is  placid.  The 
houses  are  mostly  snug  cottages,  many  of 
them  very  picturesque.  Here  and  there,  is  a 
mouldering  boat  by  a  decrepit  wharf,  or  a  dory 
drawn  up  or  afloat,  or  an  old-fashioned  well, 
—  in  fact  the  place  abounds  in  artistic  bits 
of  foreground.  All  about  Cape  Ann,  one  will 
notice  how  common  and  how  various  are  the 
wayside  wells.  Past  the  post-office  and 
school,  the  road  turns  at  the  head  of  the  har- 
bor to  the  west  side  of  the  hill,  where  there  is 
a  summer  settlement  by  Cambridge  people. 
It  is  at  the  head  of  Squam  River,  across  which 
are  the  fantastic  shifting  dunes  of  Coffin's 


2l8 


The  Puritan  Coast 


beach    and    the    sands   of    Castle    Neck   in 
Ipswich. 


Head  of  Anntsyuam  Harbor. 


From  the  main  street  near  the  post-office, 
the  way  to  Gloucester  is  over  the  old  wooden 
bridge,  over  which  the  stage-coach  has  ceased 


Pigeon  Cove  and  Annisquam.     219 

to  clatter.  It  was  a  noisy  crossing,  made  not 
without  apprehension.  Even  under  a  passing 
wheel,  the  old  draw  creaks  complainingly. 

At  the  head  of  the  cove,  the  little  church 
shines  white  above  the  green  ring  of  trees, 
and,  in  leafy  shadows,  a  schooner  or  two  seem 
like  interlopers  in  this  land-locked  quiet. 

Across  the  bridge  we  come  again  to  Wash- 
ington Street,  then  another  bridge,  and  so, 
under  a  long  aisle  of  arching  willows,  to 
Riverdale.  The  picturesque  quality  of  the 
way  here  is  leaving  it  fast ;  it  is  not  as  pleas- 
ant a  ride  or  walk  as  it  used  to  be. 

Close  by  the  tide-mill  is  the  monument  to 
the  "  Riverdale  Martyrs,"  under  the  shadow 
of  the  flag.  Above  the  dam,  the  calm  waters 
reflect  steep-faced  Beacon  Pole  Hill,  and  be- 
low, the  water  tumbles  noisily  into  an  arm 
of  Squam  River,  stretching  out  attractively 
between  Riverdale  and  Wheeler's  Point. 

The  road  rises  to  the  foot  of  Beacon  Pole 
Hill.  From  this  elevation,  I  looked  across  the 
green  fertile  meadows  and  calm  stream.  The 


22O 


The  Puritan  Coast. 


rough  hills,  with  a  virile,  bossy  decoration  of 
thickly  strewn  bowlders,  caught  on  their 
shoulders  the  golden  evening  light.  The 


River  dale. 


shadow,  creeping  upward  with  purple  edge, 
melted  into  rich  olive  in  the  hollow,  from  the 
mingling  of  lichen-colored  rocks  and  thin, 


Pigeon  Cove  and  Annisquam.     221 

cropped  turf.  Beyond,  in  the  south,  over  the 
roofs  of  Gloucester,  in  the  last  ray  of  sunset, 
glistened  the  golden  cross  of  Saint  Anne's. 

It  is  now  only  a  short  wheel  back  to 
Gloucester.  There  finishes  the  bicycle  path 
along  the  Puritan  Coast,  and  here  this  book 
comes  also  to  its  End. 


f 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  738  492     8 


